


Hotel California

by aroncorsier



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Gender-neutral Reader, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-07-04 02:35:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroncorsier/pseuds/aroncorsier
Summary: A hotel employee (you) is having issues with their uniform on the first day of work at a prestigious hotel. On their way to ask their manager for help they accidentally cross paths with a creepy customer looking somewhat lost. Things escalate when the odd stranger says that they can help the attendant, and the employee can’t seem to resist further interactions with the mysterious foreigner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So the title was actually an accident, I was trying to think of something hotel-related and then I remembered I set it in California XD. Also, this was kind of inspired by Bill Nye’s story about the bow tie and the mortician so yeah there you go, enjoy. there’s lots of Undertaker being creepy and sexy and the attendant being a little bit nervous and a little bit sassy. Enjoy and comment.

“This! Is! So! Stupid!” I hissed, pulling at the fabric helplessly.   
This bowtie would be the death of me. I had barely managed to get all the weirdly-embossed buttons done up on the front of my white shirt, and now I was expected to just know how to tie this thing?   
I ripped it from my neck in frustration. It sat complacently in my palm, all curvy and confusing and mockingly limp. Resentfully, I glared at it and stuck my head out of the staff room to see if there were people around. If the lobby was abandoned, I could run to my manager’s office and ask him to show me. However, that would be entirely unprofessional, so I knew I couldn’t risk any customers spotting me dashing madly about with an unfinished uniform. As I dipped my head out, I at first saw no one. Sighing in relief, I stepped forwards and started a light jog to my manager’s office. As I approached the lobby, however, a man turned the corner. His imposing appearance likely didn’t help my reaction; he was tall, wearing long black clothes, with long silver hair and a jagged scar slicing his face neatly in half. His eyes...  
Screeching to a halt, I felt my heart leap into my mouth from the jump-scare. I spun on my heel. Realizing there was no way he hadn’t already seen me, I spun back, red-faced and shaking. I hid the traitorous bowtie behind my back and forced my lips into a painfully warm smile.   
“Hello sir,” I quipped. “Welcome to the hotel. Do you require any assistance?”  
He stared at me, seeming somewhat concerned. I coughed lightly into my sleeve to recompose myself.   
The stranger seemed to shake himself. Quite literally. As he shivered, his silver bangs fell down over his eyes, and the room dimmed. He smiled back at me, teeth whiter even than his skin.  
“Why, if you’re offering, you can show me to my room. Apparently, this hotel is one of the largest in the city, and I’m afraid I’m extremely near-sighted.”  
I blushed again, feeling foolish for how I acted, and slowly slid the bowtie into the waistband of my black workplace pants.   
“Of course, sir. I’d be happy to guide you. Which room have you been given?”  
“Uh,” he mumbled, glancing at the plastic white card in his hand. I glanced too. Long black nails. What was this man? I’d never seen anyone like him, but in this day and age, I wasn’t surprised by a male with long hair and acrylics.  
“306,” he informed me.   
I died a little inside. Five floors up. That meant being in an elevator and making small talk for five entire floors.   
“Right this way sir,” I smiled again and beckoned. “Do you not have bags?” I asked as he stepped forwards.   
He grinned and slid a black back pack off his shoulder.   
“It just blends in,” he chuckled.   
Releasing a polite laugh, I moved to the elevator down the hall, praying my tie was tucked in far enough that he wouldn’t see.   
Once we were in the elevator, I glanced at my feet and tapped them nervously.   
He noticed.   
“First day?” He inquired, voice gentle.   
I nodded. “Can’t lose this job,” I murmured, then glanced at him, ashamed.   
He smiled and tilted his head up, seeming to be appreciating the shitty elevator music.  
“You mentioned you were near-sighted... Do you not carry glasses, sir?”  
He shook his head, hair flipping about him. “No. Unfortunately, I lost my only pair about... seventy years ago.”  
“Uh,” I said, before choking on my own saliva in surprise. “You look, uh...”  
I cleared my throat again. “You seemed younger.”  
“Of course,” he murmured, almost sadly.   
I waited for him to finish, but he said nothing more.  
The elevator buttons flashed and sang their monotone song to us, indicating we had arrived. Thank god.   
I urged the doors open. “Two more hallways, sir, and we’ll have arrived.”  
He followed me obediently, almost carelessly, as I led him down the upholstered hallways. The numbers on doors drifted by.   
—  
278  
—  
300  
—  
305, 306!  
There it was. Planting my feet, I spun to face him with a wide smile.   
“Here you are, sir! Just swipe your card right there and you’re all set. If you need assistance, there will be a white button on the inside of the door that calls a bellhop to your room. Please enjoy your stay!”  
He nodded to me and swiped his card through. Normally we wait until the client has shut the door behind themselves to ensure they have no further questions or issues upon entering the room. But, he simply swung his bag into the doorway, and then leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. I raised my eyebrow, but maintained professionalism.   
I couldn’t lose this job.   
He tilted his head and looked, presumably, at me.   
“My thanks,” he said, gesturing with a pale hand towards me.   
I quirked my head and gave a small bow.   
“It’s what we are here for, sir.”  
He chuckled. “So,” he said, and my practised smile tightened nervously.  
“What had you in such a tizzy earlier?” He asked.   
I felt my face go pale and my smile dropped. Just for a second.   
“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with, sir. I’m sure I can get it fixed shortly.”  
Shit.   
What if he put in a complaint? Unprofessional looking staff, at an establishment like this- I’d be fired on the spot-  
“What was it?” He asked gently.   
After a tense moment of deliberation, I sighed and my shoulders visibly slumped. I scratched at my neck, unsure of how to explain. Reaching behind me, I pulled out the stupid bowtie and held it out in my palm, miserable.   
“I can’t tie this,” I whispered. “It’s a necessary part of the uniform for this hotel. But I don’t know how. I tried for fifteen minutes straight.”   
“That’s a lot of minutes,” the stranger said, unfolding his arms and taking a step forwards. “I can tie it for you,” he said, almost gleefully.   
“You can?” I asked hopefully.   
“Yes,” he said. Then he hesitated, before stepping forwards to take the tie from me. “But,” he continued, “you’ll have to lay down on the bed.”  
I felt myself pale again, and he put his hands up, one of which now had my bowtie in custody. Shit.   
“It sounds strange, I know, but I have my reasons,” he assured me.   
I’m sure you do.   
“O-of course, sir, if you’re s-sure- I can also just go down to management and get it done there-“  
“I insist,” he murmured, and gestured towards the hotel room.   
Well shit.   
Young employee raped, or at least tortured, on first day of work, the headlines would read. Kidnapped and Killed Hotel.   
I brushed past the bizarre man swiftly and stepped inside the room. I considered making a run for the phone, but on my first day of work, I didn’t want to be the employee that cried wolf. He shut the door softly behind us. Having memorized the layout of the rooms, my feet simply carried me to the west wall, in the middle of which I knew the double bed would be.   
I turned round to face him and fell backwards onto the right side of the bed before I could give it a second thought.   
The stranger didn’t say anything; simply strode over to me, all dark and imposing. I recoiled slightly in fear when he leaned over me, bending at his slender waist, but then his bangs fell away from his face and I was immediately hypnotized by the brilliant green eyes that now focused on my throat.  
One of his hands snaked around to lift the back of my head, and the other flicked the bowtie into place beneath my neck. That done, he let me go. I stared at his eyes while his fingers did something beneath my chin that I could not see. His freezing skin grazed mine as he pulled on some or other aspect of the tie, and I flinched. His gaze met mine and he smiled apologetically.  
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s hard to wear gloves with these nails.”   
I didn’t dare move while his hands were at my neck. Teeth gritted, I hissed out:  
“It’s fine.”  
“Almost done,” he breathed, focusing again on the horrible piece of fabric in his hands. There was a quick pressure on my trachea, just for a moment, and then he pulled away.   
My eyes had to readjust to the light- I hadn’t realized his long hair had created a tunnel of darkness between him and I, and I hissed and held my hand up against the searing sun from the window.   
The stranger laughed and moved to pick his bag up from the floor.   
“Thank you,” I said, sitting up and feeling gently at my neck. The tie was knotted perfectly.   
“Of course,” he replied, moving his pack to the far corner.   
“But... Why did I have to lay down?” I inquired, still somewhat shaken.   
“Oh, I’m an undertaker,” he said, and I shivered. Fuck. I was treated like a cadaver. He glanced at me with a mischievous smile.   
“It’s the only way I know how to tie a bowtie, as I myself never wear one. I didn’t tell you before because people seem to be unnecessarily frightened at the prospect.”  
“Being treated as a corpse does tend to unnerve one,” I replied. “No offence. Thank you again,” I said, pushing myself off the bed.   
He waved a taloned hand. “No problem. Now you said this little white button would call a helper?” He asked, pointing at the indent in the back of the door.   
“Yes,” I affirmed. “Use it any time you require assistance. You can also pick up the phone over there and dial 123 and you’ll get the service desk,” I explained. “321 dials management. Thank you and have a great day,” I chirped, opening the door carefully as to not hit him, and I slipped out. As I left, he hooked his finger into the cuff of my shirt sleeve.   
“And how do I ask for you specifically?” He asked. “I don’t really like meeting new people over and over again. Wears me down,” he explained, when I looked surely terrified.   
“Uh-um, j-just ask service desk for L-London,” I squeaked.   
“London, hm? That’s where I’m from,” he smiled, and retracted his grip.   
“That explains the accent. You’ve come a long way,” I replied, sincerely surprised. “Why are you in California?”  
He giggled. “That’s a conversation for another day. I’m sure you have work to do,” he said, and the door clicked shut behind me softly.   
“Um... okay,” I whispered to myself. Shaking out of my daze, I started off to go change any sheets from rooms that had been recently vacated. 

I forgot about the stranger. Or rather, didn’t think of him again that day, not until I finished shift and caught the bus home. I plugged in my earphones, smiled at an old lady, and then tilted my head back to daydream for the half hour ride back to my apartment. That’s when I thought of him again.   
He didn’t seem malicious, just... odd.   
Still had to be careful, though.   
I had been praised at the end of the day, and I was still bathing in the self-righteous afterglow of doing my job right. There was $120 in my pocket, right there.   
Now I had to go home and learn to tie a fucking bowtie for tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

I went to work with bandaids covering all of my fingertips. I tried to look happy. I really did. And yet, as soon as I entered the lobby, who did I see other than Strangey McDark. He was sitting in one of the lobby couches. He smiled and waved at me, his other hand occupied by a piece of banana bread from the little chain café next door.  
I smiled and waved back. At the sight of my hand his smile dropped and he beckoned me to him. I halted my path and switched course, redirecting my route. I steeled myself for another bizarre encounter.  
“What’s with the bandages?” He asked, reaching forwards. Before I could move back, he gripped my wrist and pulled my hand towards him to examine.  
I turned away awkwardly, but my hand was trapped. “Uh, I, uh...”  
He tilted his head up to me. “Still can’t tie the tie, huh?”  
I shook my head, embarrassed. “I tried until I bled from the fabric last night,” I whispered. “And my fingers are too slippery with the bandages on, I can barely grip the damn thing. I couldn’t very well bloodstain it,” I hissed, exasperated with the memories of the previous and extremely frustrating evening.  
He chuckled quietly and patted my hand. “Come up to my room and I’ll tie it again for you.”  
“T-to your room?”  
“Well, doing it here would be slightly more conspicuous, wouldn’t you agree?” He hummed.  
“I’ll just get my manager to do it,” I replied, pulling on my hand, just a little. Didn’t want to make a scene. His grip tightened in response.  
“And how will you explain how you had it tied yesterday?” He asked through his dark smile, voice low. “You can’t very well say you asked a customer to help you. And you can’t lie to your manager, they have security cameras to check if you act at all suspicious.”  
“Are you threatening me?” I whispered, still with my face turned away from the front desk.  
He laughed quietly again. “No, merely remarking that you’re terrible at hiding things. No offence, but even someone as blind as myself could see how distressed you were yesterday.”  
I blushed and tugged on my hand stubbornly.  
He let it go and rose to his feet. Suddenly he towered over me again, and I barely resisted the urge to stumble back and flee.  
“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he murmured, stepping past me and moving to the elevators, long black coat swirling behind him. Once he was safely secured behind the metal doors, I sighed and turned around to head to the staff room.  
Linda, the desk lady, and Matthew, another secretary, both looked at me with concern. “Everything alright?” Linda asked.  
“All good,” I smiled and wiggled my fingers. “He was just asking about the bandaids.”  
“And what are they from?” Matthew asked.  
“Burned myself on a cookie sheet yesterday,” I said, which was also true.  
I had chocolate chip cookies in my bag.  
Lunchtime secret. 

I did up the last button on my uniform and glanced at the clock. I was way too early. Half an hour before shift began, since I had expected to have to struggle more with the tie. I debated trying, to kill time, but one glance at my angry fingertips told me otherwise. I sighed and plucked up the treacherous little piece of fabric that was laying on the chair before me. Clenching it in my fist, I glared at it resentfully.  
“You are going to get me killed, or something,” I hissed at it.  
It sat and stared up at me silently. It was mocking me, I just knew it.  
Resisting the overwhelming urge to whip it out the nearest window, I tucked all its loose ends into my fist and pushed out of the door.  
Waving nonchalantly at Linda and Matthew again, I headed to the elevator.  
“Uh... London, it’s half an hour before your shift,” Matthew said.  
“I know,” I chirped. “Gotta make a good impression.”  
The elevator doors scraped shut and I was safe from their questions.  
I had three minutes to compose myself before I reached the undertaker’s room. I still didn’t even know the man’s name.  
I should get on that.  
Learning his name, not, uh, he himself.  
Jesus where did that come from  
What the fuck is wrong with you  
After a solid mental thrashing, I left the elevator feeling severely self-scolded. Approaching room number 306 with a small amount of dread, I forced my mind to clear and gave three quick taps.  
“Housekeeping,” I muttered sarcastically under my breath.  
The door swung inwards and a dark figure behind it gestured for me to enter.  
I stepped onto the threshold and glanced up at him uneasily. Not being able to see his eyes was somewhat unnerving.  
“Good morning,” he said, breaking into a grin.  
“Good morning,” I replied. “Johnnie’s café is nice, isn’t it?”  
His smile faltered. “How did you... know that I went to the café?” He asked slowly.  
I laughed lightly and stepped further into the room to escape the claustrophobic doorway.  
“I saw you with your little treat this morning, remember?”  
“Ah yes,” he smiled. “Fit for a king.”  
“If there’s any café worthy of that title, it would be that one,” I agreed.  
He approached me and held out his hand. “Now then,” he said. “Shall we?”  
“If you don’t mind,” I sighed, still somewhat ashamed, and passed the tie to him.  
“Not at all,” he replied, and I tipped backwards onto the bed again.  
The mattress puffed and sighed beneath my weight.  
I closed my eyes as he drew near. Stupid move, but, there wasn’t going to be much I could do against him with my eyes open anyway.  
I felt his fingers on the back of my head again as he lifted me slightly. The fabric was flicked beneath my neck, and apparent magic was worked at my throat. This time, without his gaze penetrating my soul, my mind had time to focus on other things. I felt his frigid skin whenever it glanced over mine; I could hear how his breathing changed slightly every time he made a mistake or had to hold something in place; his long hair tickled the sides of my face as lightly as spiderwebs.  
“There we go,” he murmured.  
When he didn’t move, I didn’t open my eyes. I assumed he had more to do.  
Then his fingertips tapped the side of my face, and I jumped.  
“Hello, are you alive?” He asked, laughing when I reacted so strongly.  
Embarrassed, I laughed as well and rubbed the back of my neck. Fingering my bowtie uneasily, I apologized.  
“No need,” he said, sliding down to sit on the foot of the bed. He glanced at the clock and then looked at me.  
“You don’t start work for another fifteen minutes?” He asked.  
I blinked. “How...”  
“No one starts work at 7:45 AM,” he chuckled lightly. “Tea?” He asked, pushing himself to his feet and moving to a small table in the corner of the room.  
I shrugged. “If you’re making some.”  
As he walked away, I analyzed his clothing. There was something different, although it looked all the same. Something must have changed. There was something missing maybe? As I tried to identify the manipulated variable, as it were, I hadn’t noticed him also watching me curiously.  
“It’s grey today,” he said.  
“What?”  
“This,” he explained, touching a small collar at his throat. “The undershirt. It’s grey today. Yesterday it was white. That’s what’s different.”  
I stared. “Are you... are you telepathic?” I asked, terrified at the prospect. God, what if he heard me in the elevator-  
The man burst out laughing, causing me to jump again.  
“N-no,” he gasped between hiccups of laughter. “You just had your thinking face on. While staring at me, so, I made an educated assumption.”  
“I should hope so,” I remarked, relieved, and then instantly facepalmed.  
The stranger burst out laughing again, nearly spilling water from the kettle he was filling.  
“And why do you say that, dear London?” He swivelled round to look at me.  
“No reason,” I replied coolly, playing poker-face and folding my hands in my lap.  
“You sure you don’t have... strange thoughts, that you wouldn’t want me to hear?” He asked, a malicious smile working its way onto his face.  
“I’m sure I could say the same for you,” I spat defensively.  
“Oh?” He challenged, turning back to the kettle and flipping it on.  
“Mmhm.” I crossed my arms. “After all, you do have a—might I say completely ravishing hotel employee—“at this I posed dramatically with the back of my hand against my forehead— “completely stranded in your hotel room, and in your bed as well, scandalously enough,” I chuckled sarcastically.  
He cackled and fell backwards into an armchair, hair and coat billowing around him as he did so. One luminescent eye was exposed in the process, and I caught my breath.  
“Be careful what you suggest,” he purred dangerously. “As I have been alone for much longer than you have, and I still have... hmm... at least eleven guaranteed minutes before people come looking for you. Probably more like an hour before the secretaries get concerned enough to call management.”  
“Now that, that was a threat,” I chuckled uneasily, pointing a wary finger at him in warning.  
“Yes,” he murmured lowly, smile fading away. “That was a threat.”  
My heart froze in terror when he didn’t follow up with a giggle or joke. My eyes stayed locked on him, but with a sudden surge of adrenaline all of my muscles collectively launched me from the bed and towards to door. I covered four feet in less than a seventh of a second. Behind me, the stranger was up in a flash, whipping forwards out of his chair and sprinting after me. His legs being far longer, he caught up to me when I was still two entire metres shy of the door. Suddenly he slammed into me from the side and I was thrown up against the wall.  
I only had a moment to recover and then his body was against mine, pressing me into the wall. I aimed to punch him, but his frozen fingertips wrapped around my arms just above my elbows and held them still. He leaned his forehead against mine threateningly.  
“Twenty-four years,” I squeaked breathlessly, what with his bodyweight crushing the air out of me. “Pretty sad, right? Think you can beat that?”  
“Mm?” He breathed, his single revealed eye still glaring straight into mine. “Try seven hundred and thirty-one.”  
My mouth fell open, and I kicked and squirmed at him again.  
“You’re- you’re insane!” I screeched. “Let me go, let me go!”  
He gritted his teeth and pushed me against the wall harder. His arm slowly cut off just enough air to stop my voice. When he had me still, he tilted his head to think.  
“Well,” he said after a moment. “Yes. But that’s unrelated to what I just told you,” he informed me, pointing an accusatory finger at me in admonishment. I punched him dead in the sternum with the hand that was suddenly free. He flinched, but only glared at me mischievously and laughed. I punched him again and he released me, taking a few steps back and holding up his pallid palms to placate me.  
“Point taken,” he said.  
“Better have,” I grumbled. “I only have nine more minutes and I don’t think I can give you an entire lecture on A) sexual assault and B) delusions about your age in that time frame.”  
“Sexual assault,” he scoffed. “Between you and I there’s more clothes than a dry-cleaner and his next pay-check.”  
“Kind of dark,” I said, raising my eyebrows at him and putting my hands on my hips. “And also technically incorrect. Do I actually have to give you this lecture? Because I will.”  
He took a step forwards and I put my hand up in warning. With a disdainful glance at my palm, he quirked his own eyebrow and smirked, slowly moving forwards until he was nearly a millimetre away from touching my hand. Narrowing my eyes at him, I hardened my glare.  
“I don’t have delusions about my age,” he murmured.  
“There’s literally no way that you’re seven hundred and thirty-one,” I hissed.  
With a surprised look, he cackled at me. “Did you just assume I’m a virgin?”  
I spluttered. “What? No, I-“  
“-Implied that I said I was that old, when all I said was that I had been alone for that long. If the two are the same number, you’re implying that I’ve simply never had anyone,” he laughed. “How rude.”  
“I-I apologize, I never meant to-“  
“Oh shush,” he waved his hand dismissively. “You’re fine.”  
“Am I going to leave this room fine?” I whispered, maintaining my glare.  
The undertaker paused to think melodramatically.  
“I guess that depends,” he smiled again, and pressed himself forwards, bending my arm and invading my personal space in the process. My hand was against his midsection— fat load of good that had done me.  
“O-on?” I asked, turning my face away from him.  
Leaning forwards until his mouth was almost against my ear, he whispered: “One thing.”  
I was so ready to punch him again. “Which is?”  
We both heard the soft click of the kettle shutting itself off, and his gaze flickered off to the side.  
“What kind of tea do you like?”  
“W-what?”  
Suddenly his presence was gone. I shuddered as he pulled away, and wrapped my arms around myself. After watching him saunter over to the kettle, ensuring he was a safe distance from me, I decided to go back to sitting on the bed. As I resettled myself on the covers again, he repeated:  
“What kind of tea do you like? Because I’m fine with most opinions, but if you like something vile like ginger cranberry carrot tea or something, I might have to kill you,” he elaborated.  
“If I ever say ginger, cranberry, and carrot as a single flavour, please do kill me,” I rolled my eyes. “Mint, if you’ve got it.”  
“Indeed I do,” he hummed.  
I fell silent and leaned back as he prepared the drinks. Seven minutes. Recognizing the sound of a spoon scraping against the bottom of a mug, I pushed myself back up as he brought one of the drinks over to me. The cup was hot and I held it carefully, smiling gratefully at the stranger.  
At that moment I realized I still hadn’t gotten his name.  
“So,” I began, as he sat himself down in the armchair once more. He raised his eyebrow at me.  
“You know my name is London,” I continued. “But I don’t know yours.”  
He nodded sagely in understanding. “Undertaker.”  
I raised my eyebrows. “Pretty direct.”  
The mortician shrugged. “Easy.”  
After a few more moments of silence and a few sips of tea between us, I launched conversation again.  
“What brings you to California?”  
He reached up and pulled all of his hair around to drape over his left shoulder.  
“Would you believe me if I told you it was a trip to come see family?”  
“No,” I said flatly. “Because then you wouldn’t be paying for this hotel room.”  
“Maybe they offered to pay,” he deflected.  
“If they did out of generosity, they would rather you stayed with them in the first place. If they’re doing so out of malice, then you wouldn’t have the type of family connection worth a trip around the world,” I reasoned. “So... no. But I’ll pretend to just so you feel like you actually won something today.”  
“Y’know, m’dear,” he said, tapping his foot and placing his fingers on his mouth melodramatically. “I’m pretty sure I won an earlier fight we had, too.”  
“Except I punched you. Twice. And it got you off. So I’d have to disagree.”  
“It takes more than a little bit of physical violence to get me off,” he replied, and I choked on the arrogantly triumphant drink of tea I was currently taking while he burst out laughing.  
“I meant away from me,” I wheezed.  
He set his cup down on the desk beside him. “I know what you meant,” he chided.  
Shaking my head, I slammed the rest of my tea back and placed the empty mug on the nightstand. Two minutes.  
The Undertaker followed my gaze to the inoffensively eggshell-coloured clock with a grin. Glancing back towards me, he tilted his head and widened his smile.  
“Much can happen in a hundred and twenty seconds, luv.” His hair draped downwards in front of his chest. It seemed like an elegant silver liquid, with a mind of its own.  
Forcing my gaze away, I rose to my feet and straightened my shirt.  
“Yes it can. Therefore, I must get to work. Thank you for your kind hospitality, uh, Undertaker.”  
He giggled and stood with my. “Never a problem. Please, allow me to show you out.”  
“No tha- okay,” I sighed meekly, as he swirled past me and slowly opened the door.  
Smiling politely up at his leering grin, I slid out of the door and breathed a sigh of relief.  
“See you tomorrow,” he murmured, shutting the door softly behind me.  
And once more, I died inside. 

After another day of changing sheets and refilling drink machines and scrubbing bathtubs I slid out of my work uniform and stuffed it in my bag. Ramming my bowtie into the bag with extreme velocity was stress-relieving. Swinging my bag up onto my shoulder, I jammed the last piece of my cookie into my mouth and scurried out the back door to catch the bus home. Unfortunately, I missed it, and settled myself to waiting another 11 minutes in the crisp Californian winter air. Plopping my bag down on top of my legs as I sat on a vacated bench, I leaned back and closed my eyes. I purposefully did not use my headphones so that I would hear when the bus was coming.  
Come to think of it, it wasn’t bad here. The nighttime air was fresher than midday, my coat was warm and comfortable, and...


	3. Chapter 3

“London? London!”   
“Hmmmmillgetrightonthatsir...” I mumbled, before sitting bolt upright. Head-rush punched me in the face and I rocked forwards, tipping over and sliding off of something. Landing on the cold pavement, I blinked and looked around myself. I could see the hotel building from here, and the underside of the bench I had been sitting on. Where was I? And why?   
“London?”  
I recognized the voice. Rolling over frantically, I nearly rolled straight into the mortician. He was kneeling beside me, scarf around his neck. One hand reached out to grab my shoulder.   
“Are you alright? What are you still doing here?”  
I blinked at him. “What... do you mean?” I groaned, rubbing my eyes. “I’m going home. It’s the end of my shift. I’m waiting for the bus.”  
The mortician pushed his bangs back out of his face. He seemed exasperated.   
“London,” he sighed. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”  
I blinked again, eyebrows lifting in surprise. Then I glared back at the bench.   
“Aw shit,” I grumbled. Turning back to him, I asked, “Then why the hell are you out here?”  
He coughed once into his sleeve. “I woke up to use the washroom and glanced out of my window. It looks out directly down at this bus stop, and I thought I recognized you. I came out to see if you were alright.”  
I nodded after a moment. “Well, thanks,” I murmured, placing a hand to my head.   
“No problem.” He stood up and proffered his own hand. I took it and hauled myself to my feet.   
The Undertaker flinched as my fingers wrapped around his, and I let go hurriedly, fearful that I had somehow hurt him. Both of his hands reached out of his black jacket pockets to grab mine. They felt warm.   
“Your hands are colder than mine! That’s almost impossible,” he exclaimed, pressing my hands together between his palms, bright green eyes wide. The heat from his skin was searing against mine, and I frowned.  
“They must have slid out of my pockets,” I replied, before pulling away. He reached out after me.   
“I should get going,” I said quickly. “The next bus will be here any second.”  
As I said this, I heard the reassuring rumble of the car on its strips. It slid up to us and hissed open.   
“Here, I’ll ride with you,” the Undertaker said, stepping past me and into the train before I could stop him.   
I shook my head and leapt on after him.   
“You’re lucky I carry two passes,” I hissed under my breath, handing him one of them as the night-watch came around to check tickets.   
“Yes,” he murmured. “And why do you do this?”  
“In case I lose one or get robbed for one,” I replied in hushed tones. “I live an hour away by foot, and I can afford a second pass more than I can afford the fee for not carrying.”  
He nodded and handed the ticket to the guard. He checked it, nodded, and passed it back. The Undertaker slipped it into his pocket. When the night-guard drifted into the next car, he tried to pass it back.   
I shook my head and pushed his hand away. “Keep it,” I said. “You’ll need it for the ride back, dodo.”  
In mock offence, he placed his hands against his chest. “I’m not the dodo that fell asleep for six hours after a twelve hour shift,” he retorted.   
“Y’know,” I hissed.   
“Mm?”  
“Just... shh.”  
He chuckled and straightened up.   
As the car emptied, the mortician led us to seats. We had about twenty more minutes to go.   
“You didn’t need to ride with me,” I sighed.  
“I wanted to, for people like that,” he murmured lowly in response, nodding his chin at a twitchy, skinny mess of a man in the far corner of the car.   
“I can take care of myself, most of those people aren’t evil masterminds.”  
“No,” he agreed. “Most of those people are opportunists.”  
“Your point?”  
He glared down at me. An unseen hand wrapped around my waist, pulling me nearer to him even as I shifted away. He leaned forwards and I put my hands against his chest, pushing him back uneasily. Suddenly he was a little too close, a little too warm, and his eyes were a little too pretty.   
“You are small, thin, and young, and easy to... take advantage of,” he hummed. “You wear opportunity like a pearl necklace.” He ran his tongue over his teeth again before letting me go. Instantly, the oppressive presence vanished.   
I shuddered and planted my hands in my lap shyly. “Point taken.”  
“Excellent,” he smiled, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head.   
I glanced away and rubbed at my eyes. My head still felt heavy. Six hours after a twelve hour shift, on an uncomfortable bench, was not enough. 

Thankfully, part of my brain stayed awake and heard the cue for my station. I blinked awake slowly, pushing myself up. I recoiled in embarrassment and blushed when I realized I had sprawled across the Undertaker’s legs. Luckily, he was asleep too. I grabbed his lapels and shook him awake, nearly dragging him off the train before it left.   
The mortician composed himself, straightening his hair and his jacket. We were now abandoned on the desolate streets of my neighbourhood.   
“Thank you. Where are we?”  
“Cedarwood,” I replied. “Six blocks from my apartment.”   
Nodding serenely, the mortician followed my lead.  
“Pay attention to the roads, if you’re going back,” I advised. “I mean, you’re welcome to crash at mine, but it would be counterintuitive to pay for a high-end hotel room and not use it. Your room is better than my apartment,” I grumbled.   
“I’m certain your place is lovely, but as to not impose, I will indeed return to the hotel.”  
We walked in the dark silence of nighttime until we got up to the front door of my apartment complex.   
“Smells like smoke,” he remarked.   
“And broken dreams,” I added. “But the basement suite is cheap.”  
He nodded sagely and turned to face me. His smile dropped and he put his hand up to my face. I flinched away, but he very delicately traced his fingernail across my cheek.   
“What’s this line from?” He asked, tilting his head.   
With yet another furious blush, I tried to think of a lie, but it was useless. After stuttering awkwardly for a moment, I slouched and turned to unlock the door of my complex.   
“Uh, I uh... took a nap,” I explained. “The line is probably the seam on your pants.”  
Thus proceeded an awkward moment of silence. Then the mortician burst out laughing, rocking back and forth on his feet, his scarf swinging wildly with his movement.   
I gave an uneasy chuckle as well and hauled open the first door. Warm air from inside the building washed over me and my frozen hands.   
“Would you like to warm up for a moment?” I asked, gesturing to the entryway.   
The Undertaker shook his head and simply buried his face in his scarf, straightening himself out with a few quiet snickers.   
“I’ll be fine, thanks.”  
“Don’t be silly,” I scolded. “Come in. Just for a moment. Your nose is turning red.”  
He narrowed his eyes and shoved his face further into the fabric. I reached forwards before either of us could react and grabbed the scarf ends, hauling him in through the doorway after me. With an offended yelp he stumbled on the carpet and fell forwards. I actually caught him— well, he caught himself, awkwardly placing his hand on the wall behind me to stabilize, one of his feet between mine. I had attempted to help, putting my hands up to catch his shoulders. This resulted in me bouncing off of him and awkwardly tipping back into the wall. I was caught between a rock and a hard place as he fell forwards, and I screamed internally.  
The mortician’s eyes were wide for a moment, and he seemed dishevelled. As I glanced up, however, he composed himself and chuckled.   
“That actually worked out rather well,” he hummed, bending his elbow and leaning further forwards, slightly menacingly. I glanced at his mouth. “Did it now?” I asked sardonically, sliding to the side. He absentmindedly allowed his other hand to drift up and rest delicately on the wall, blocking me in. I narrowed my eyes at the action. “Rude.”  
“Convenient,” he replied. “For one of us, anyway.”  
“And only one,” I snapped, pushing past his hand. His fingers wrapped around my wrist as I did so, lifting my arm and spinning me like a dancer before his other hand shifted onto my waist. Then suddenly, somehow, I was against the other wall, my hand in his and his other against my hip.   
He tilted his head. “Now we both know that’s not quite true, don’t we?” He chuckled.   
“At least this time you’re not choking me,” I snarled, recalling a similar moment in the hotel room. He laughed and quirked an eyebrow.   
“That can be arranged,” he purred, the hand on my hip reaching up to teasingly hover just below my throat.  
I blushed and pushed forwards. He let me, spinning again and whirling me with him. I stumbled, never having danced. I yelped as I plummeted for about half an inch before he swung me around and dipped me over his arm. Holding me there and leaning over he smirked. “Well, is this better? I didn’t take you for a fan of such interesting positions,” he giggled. I tried to punch him again, but without my centre of balance, I wasn’t strong enough to do much damage. The mortician clicked his tongue and lowered himself until his mouth stopped just an inch above mine. His smile was of sibylline mystery, making his intentions clear. I made a small “eep” noise in panicked protest. This made him chuckle, and he lifted us both back up without another word. With a romantic sigh he stepped back easily, holding my arms out to the sides before slowly releasing my hands from his custody.   
“Thanks for the dance,” he murmured, winking as his bangs fell down over his eyes.   
“Thanks for, uh, walking me home,” I said, glancing at my feet and shifting awkwardly.  
“Of course,” he said, stepping forwards. He took my hand gently and bowed, pressing it lightly to his mouth before straightening up. I was actually dumbfounded- was this seriously the difference between American and British culture?   
There was a dark, tense moment of silence between us. I stared up at him, somewhat amazed and literally shocked beyond my capabilities, and he... well, I’m not sure what he was doing. Standing. Creepily. Comfortingly watching me, contemplating something.  
Then he leaned back and clicked his tongue again, dropping my hand. “Now I should get going,” he said cheerily, as he spun on his heel. I dodged the fan of hair that whipped out after him.  
“S-see you tomorrow,” I called after him, stopping the door that he had quickly tucked through with my boot.   
The mortician paused, footsteps halting halfway down the path to the sidewalk.   
“Yes,” he replied, without turning around.   
Then he kept walking, and I closed the door.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, I knocked on door 306 only ten minutes early. Not to say I didn’t enjoy his company; quite the opposite at this point. No, rather, I had slept in. Which had been nice, considering the rocky start of the night.   
But here I was, still on time, still early, in fact, and... still incapable. The bandages were still wrapped around my fingertips.   
The Undertaker opened the door and welcomed me in. I passed him the tie mournfully. He chuckled and I flopped down onto the bed. His cold, elegant hands worked their way behind my head.   
He leaned over me again and this time I kept my eyes open, staring once again at the gorgeous bright green eyes that fixated on my throat, on his task. They seemed to actively glow, to give the room a certain brightness.   
As his hair formed a scintillating tunnel between us once again, his eyes met mine. At my gawking he quirked an eyebrow.   
“Like what you see, m’dear?” His hands fell still, holding onto the fabric of the bowtie with delicacy.   
“It’s a shame you keep so hidden,” I replied quietly.   
He shrugged and resumed working. “It’s easier.”  
“Than being pretty?”  
He smiled sadly and shook his head, but said nothing.   
I narrowed my eyes. “Wait... look at me again.”  
“I am technically still looking at you,” he replied lowly, gaze still fixated on the tie.   
“Fine, be difficult,” I snapped.   
I reached up and wrapped my hand around the back of his neck, beneath his hair. Before he could duck away, I planted my other palm just beneath his mouth. I pulled him down, tilting his chin upwards so I could look at his eyes. At the sudden physical attack, I felt his body tense and he held himself very, very still. Breaths short and shallow, he looked at me with... apprehension, waiting for me to see whatever I needed to beneath his long white lashes.   
“You have double-ringed irises,” I whispered, eyes widening in realization.  
“Yes,” he breathed back.   
“Why?”  
“Not entirely sure myself,” he murmured.  
I held him there for a few more moments, appreciating the mild discomfort I was causing him. Revenge. As I looked for another excuse to analyze him further, I noticed a black bar in his ear. I forced his head to the left. He inhaled rather sharply in response, and I suppressed a triumphant chuckle.   
His ear was pierced. A black hoop at the bottom with several black bejewelled studs throughout the edge, plus a bar through the top.   
“Quite the decorations,” I said, and slowly released my hold on him.   
He lifted himself up slightly. I raised my eyebrow when I noticed his cheeks were slightly darker than usual, and he coughed and hid in his sleeve for a moment.   
“Yes,” he replied, before recommencing tying the tie. “I’ve gotten them all done over many years.”  
“Why do you hide so much?”  
“So that people like you have mysteries to keep you around,” he laughed and straightened, stepping away.  
Habitually, I felt at the bowtie.   
“You have to teach me,” I said imploringly.  
“No I don’t,” he replied, not turning to look at me.   
I scowled. “But then what will I do when you leave? How long are you here for, anyway?”  
He glanced over his shoulder at me, before moving to the black bag in the corner and withdrawing a hairbrush.   
“Until my job here is completed,” he explained cryptically.   
I tapped my lips with my finger. “So you’re here on business, then.”  
The Undertaker shrugged his black-clad shoulders and took a seat on the armchair. “Sure, why not.”  
With that, he began dragging the hairbrush through his silky silver hair.   
“Your hair is like spiderweb thread,” I blurted.   
He glanced at me incredulously. “What, the strongest bloody material on earth?” He asked, gritting his teeth as he yanked the brush through a tangle.   
“Very fine, very shiny. Very soft.”  
He frowned at me and laughed. “When did you feel my hair without my knowledge?”  
I rolled my eyes and threw my hands up. “Only every time you lean over me. It’s almost like it’s five feet long, or something.”  
“Five feet, three inches,” he corrected.   
“How bloody tall are you?!” I demanded, mouth falling open.   
“6’3”,” he replied with a wicked grin. “So, fairly.”  
I rubbed my temples with my bandaged fingertips. “Jeez,” I muttered. “Yeah. Very.”  
“Mind blown?”  
“Mind equals blown,” I admitted. Then I checked the clock. “Five minutes.”  
He hummed a little under his breath, then ran his tongue over his teeth idly. Setting down his hairbrush, he steepled his fingers against his lips again.   
“Much can happen in three hundred seconds,” he murmured, eyes flickering.   
I folded my arms and leaned back against the headboard.   
“I’m not going to panic again. Nice try.”  
“Such a shame, you’re fun when you’re scared.”  
“Implying that I’m boring otherwise?”  
He giggled and spread his hands. “Not at all. Entertaining in other ways.”  
“That’s not at all reassuring, coming from you.”  
“Not much is,” he sighed. “I am an undertaker, after all.”  
“And I’m just a lowly hotel employee,” I replied. “Who must now get to work.” I smiled apologetically and pushed myself off the bed.   
“London,” he said, in a suddenly serious tone.   
Halting, I turned slowly. “Yes?”  
The Undertaker was still in his chair. Both his eyes were on me, and his chin was in his hand. Both arms on the armrests, he simply looked at me for a moment.   
“Do you have any family here?”  
Taken aback by the strange question, I frowned slightly in confusion.   
“Uh... not... really, why do you ask? My parents are in Greenland... they kind of just... up and left...”  
“So what’s holding you here?” He murmured.   
Sadness. It was definitely sadness that I could see upon his pale features.   
“Lack of money, I guess,” I shrugged. “This is where circumstance took me. Until I can afford... some other lifestyle, this is how I will live. I’ll get promoted through this hotel, maybe, and then go from there.”  
“Hmm,” he murmured, still gazing at me.  
“Why do you ask?” I queried, suddenly suspicious. I slowly began taking steps backwards out of the room.  
“You will see,” he murmured. “Tomorrow.”  
“T-tomorrow?” I stammered.   
He hummed a little in thought. “See? You’re fun when you’re scared. I shall see you out.”  
I stood stiffly to the side as he swung open the door. With a smile and a goodbye wave, I slipped out of the door and out into the hotel to do my duties.   
That had been a strangely unnerving encounter. 

After a looooong day of dragging sheets from floor to floor and scraping various deposits off of walls, I hit the bus station without further incident and made it home.   
Glancing around my cramped and overheated apartment as I shut the door behind me, I sighed. What was holding me here? Nothing. Nothing I cared about was here.   
The thought had been preying on me for the entire 12 hours that I worked. I picked up the overtime again, when a coworker went home sick. More money.   
What was here for me?  
What was waiting in the future? Maybe secure a job, maybe meet somebody, and then raise a kid? Raise another nobody? Would that be fair?  
Would I even be promoted? Or was I destined to be one of those people that was a janitor until they died, alone?  
I threw my bag in frustration and it puffed sadly down the hallway, just in front of my bedroom.   
I flopped on the floor, facedown on the carpet. Feeling bad for myself felt nice... and before I even made myself any food, I cried myself to sleep, there on the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

I awoke to my alarm on my watch beeping and buzzing. Yanking myself up from the shag carpet of my apartment, I forced myself over to my bag. I had to iron out my clothes, even if I couldn’t wash them. I rubbed sleep from my eye while directing the iron over the fabric, smoothing each wrinkle and dent into perfection. Then I carefully folded the outfit and placed it back in the bag neatly, the bowtie resting on top. Time to face the day.

The zipper on the back of my pants got stuck.  
“You’ve-got-to-be-kidding!” I screamed.  
After tugging and tugging at the zipper, I poked my head out of the door to see if Linda was at the desk.  
It was only Matthew. Which would be awkward, because I had a bit of a crush on him.  
He didn’t see me, so I ducked back into the room with a sigh.  
I glared at the mirror, grabbed my bowtie, and slammed my head against the wall.  
I pushed out of the door, waved at Matthew, who now looked concerned, and bolted for the elevator. 

The Undertaker opened the door and I shoved past him without a word. Flopping forwards, I fell onto his bed face-first, hips in the air with my legs sprawled out behind me.  
“Um? That’s not—uh, not your typical position,” he coughed, and I heard the door click shut a little faster than usual.  
“I-can’t-get-the-zipper-up!” I hissed through clenched teeth.  
I heard him move closer. “What? Oh- oh.”  
The mortician burst out laughing.  
“SHUT UP!” I shouted into his bedding, turning red.  
Laughing even harder, he doubled over and then toppled onto the bed next to me.  
I glared at the madman from the corner of my eye and huffed indignantly as his silver hair drifted in pools around his giggling form.  
“F-fine, I’ll help you,” he chuckled, pushing himself up.  
I felt his hands delicately tugging at the back of my hips. Apparently, he was being careful not to touch too low. I chuckled inwardly, but was too embarrassed to actually laugh.  
Unlike someone.  
He was still snickering when I finally felt a piece of fabric tug free, and I heard the zipper click all the way up into its place.  
“There you are,” he said kindly as I flipped over and handed him the bowtie.  
“Thanks,” I sighed, flinging my arms out to the sides dramatically.  
“You seem very... antagonized today,” he murmured, leaning over me and placing the tie behind my neck.  
“Not to be dramatic, but I fell asleep on my floor and then came to work. I’ve eaten nothing, I’m unshowered, and the zipper on my pants got stuck and I had to sneak all the way up here since I couldn’t find any other employees I’d be willing to ask for this!” I snapped, counting my mild misfortunes off on my fingers.  
The mortician chuckled and sighed, tightening part of the tie. “I can only fix one of those, m’dear, and I already have. Unfortunately, you only have... well, actually, you have a solid fifteen minutes,” he suggested hesitantly, fiery green eyes flickering over to the clock on the wall.  
I raised my eyebrow and he sighed, grimacing in preparation. Apprehensively, I waited for him to figure out his tongue.  
“I mean... This room... has a shower in it,” he coughed nervously.  
I raised my other eyebrow. “Uh...”  
“Nononono, listen, I mean, you don’t have to, obviously, I just, if you- if you wanted to- it- then- two things- but like, I don’t- I wouldn’t j-“  
“Shh,” I commanded, slapping my hand over his mouth. “I get the message.”  
His eyes widened in immediate fear as I planted my palm on him, but now he sighed in relief. Then his expression changed, and his eyes gazed down directly into mine. A mischievous glint flashed as a warning that I ignored. I slid my hand off his mouth to allow him to speak.  
“Y’know, m’dear,” he purred. “I wouldn’t join you, unless of course, you-“  
I punched him in the chest and he coughed and rolled away from me.  
Laughing victoriously, I stood up and walked to the washroom.  
“Bring me food as an apology for what you just implied,” I instructed, closing the washroom door behind me.  
“Okay,” I heard him wheeze from the floor.  
Must have gotten him right in the diaphragm, I thought with glee. Grinning wickedly to myself, I quickly stripped down, laying my clothes carefully across the sink countertop to not crease them again. 

After my shower, I stepped out into the hotel room to the scent of blueberry. On the bedside table was a lovely-looking blueberry muffin. I smiled at it and dropped the towel on the floor.  
“That’s not where that belongs,” the Undertaker chided from his armchair.  
I stumbled back and pressed my hands to my chest.  
“I can see your torso outline? What is this?” I gasped.  
He had shed his outer... cloak, or whatever it was he usually wore. Now he was in a tight-fitted black coat, with red collar and sleeve cuffs. His undershirt. Must have been ruby-coloured that day.  
He giggled at the examination and crossed his arms, curling in on himself and flicking hair over half of his face.  
“Must be a miracle,” he murmured, playing with a small braid.  
“Well, thanks for the muffin, and I’ll pick up the towel in... four minutes,” I said, falling onto the bed before ravenously devouring the goodie.  
“Did you manage to do your own pants up this time?” He smirked.  
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Yes, thank you,” I hissed.  
He held up his hands. “I was just wondering. Making sure you didn’t need a gentleman like myself to come feel about your hips. No need to be so hostile.”  
“I feel like there is,” I growled. Then I held up the bowtie. “But I’ll maintain professionalism.”  
“Professionalism?” He scoffed. “You just had a shower in a gentleman’s hotel room, and are now laying on his bed, holding out a tie,” he murmured, pushing himself out of the chair and walking over. Pale fingers casually directed some locks of hair behind his left ear. He took the tie and held it threateningly in his hands. After pondering the smooth fabric for a few moments, he ran his tongue over his teeth again. The mortician then tilted his head and looked down at me. “And goodness knows what anyone would think of that,” he smiled.  
My throat suddenly felt very dry. “I, uh...”  
He giggled and placed his hand on my shoulder, pushing gently against me until I was laying on my back on the bed in front of him. Leaning over me, he slid the bowtie beneath my neck once more. I stared up at him, tilting my chin up as necessary.  
I watched his hair wave back and forth gently as he tilted his head this way and that. His pale lashes fluttered each time he blinked.  
Then he glanced up. His eyes flickered back down, but he did a double-take when he realized I was staring. The mortician’s hands stilled and his eyes locked on mine.  
A strangely warm moment of silence passed between us. Then he leaned forward. I sucked in a breath as his cheeks tinged darker and his mouth opened slightly. There was nothing I could say; my body was statuesque, paralyzed beneath his gaze.  
The Undertaker leaned forwards again, and his lips were surprisingly warm, and soft. Gentle.  
I felt his hair graze my cheeks. I closed my eyes.  
His mouth was there for a few moments more before he pulled back slightly.  
Somehow, beyond my comprehension, I stuttered out words. “... I have to... go to... work,” I gasped.  
“Mmhm,” he breathed, and he shifted so that both his knees were on the bed. His lips claimed mine again, and I forgot why I was there except for this.  
His hand already on the side of my neck, cold, and his mouth gently pressed against mine, warm.  
Then I pushed him back slowly. Our mouths made a gentle pop as they disconnected.  
“I have to go to work,” I sighed. “Seriously.”  
“Good thing I already tied the tie,” he smiled shyly, and held up his tremoring hands.  
I chuckled. “First day?”  
“Can’t lose this... uh, I don’t have a clever response,” he coughed.  
“Thats fine,” I said, sliding out from underneath him.  
I grabbed the towel up from off the floor, swung it over my shoulder, and waved over my shoulder.  
“Catch you later,” I said. “Thanks for breakfast.”  
With that, I closed the door behind me with a smirk, leaving him semi-bewildered on the bed. 

“You seem unnaturally cheery today,” Matthew commented, as I swung by with a laundry basket and a big silly grin.  
I shook my head and laughed, hauling the laundry basket in front of me and out the door.  
“Don’t worry about it.”  
“You seemed pretty surly this morning...”  
“Don’t worry about it!” I shouted as the door slammed shut behind me.  
Dropping the basket unceremoniously atop the washer, I spun on my heel and opened the drier. Pulling the sheets out and piling them up into my arms, I deposited them into the “to be folded” bin. Turning back to the washer with another little dance, I yanked out the soaked bedsheets and whipped them into the drier. I pulled out the lint trap, picked it out into the garbage, slotted it back inside the machine, and added a static-removal sheet. Placing the other bedsheets into the washer, I popped in the soap and started up the cycle. Then I pressed the start button on the drier. I was about to turn and leave when I noticed how quiet the entire maintenance room was. Peering around, I realized that one pipe on the far right wall that was usually vibrating no longer was. I followed the line up with my eyes, and noticed a section of a connective tube had been worn down. As the drier started up, so did a weird hiss, and a weird smell...  
I tried to run from the room, and I was about to scream for Matthew, but the explosion happened before I could do anything other than widen my eyes.  
The deafening sound of metal breaking; brick walls rupturing, and a blast of heat against my back. I was thrown into the air, and then I was unconscious.


	6. Chapter 6

I opened my eyes. Pain... fire... silence.  
My vision was blurry, and my head was pounding.   
I was laying on the remnants of the washing machine. My blood... I assumed... was all over the sheets.  
“London!”  
That familiar voice.   
My ears were ringing.   
My brain went foggy again and my eyes closed. I threw up.   
“London!”  
Closer now.  
I flipped over in the rubble, my hands painfully digging into the brick shards.   
“Under...taker?” I whimpered.   
I could see him. He was standing in front of me. Tall, and dark. He was glowing. His outline. A green aura. His eyes were positively glittering. He was... weeping.   
“London,” he murmured, kneeling in front of me.   
I grabbed onto him and opened my mouth to speak.   
“Shh,” he said, placing one arm carefully beneath my shoulders. “Listen.”  
I listened, and he smiled sadly, lips quivering. “No more screams.”  
The Undertaker closed his eyes, listening peacefully as more tears dripped down his cheeks. Reaching into the breast pocket on his coat, he withdrew a small notebook with a pink bookmark in it. He flipped it open, looked at it, and then gazed intently at me.   
“London Scathe.”  
“H-how do you know my name?” I breathed, and the words seemed to hit him like... well, a gasoline explosion.   
He pressed his palm to his eyes and sobbed once before pushing my hand off of his shoulder. I fell back onto a piece of piping and yelped. Staring at him, feeling suddenly betrayed, I began to cry as well.   
He stepped back and doubled over in emotional agony again. Turning away, he shook a few times and wrapped his arms around himself. His glowing green fire was bright against the dark red of the hot flames surrounding us.  
“I’m so... so sorry,” he murmured, wiping at his face once more.   
“... I’m... confused...”  
Then something green fanned out in front of the Undertaker. My eyes widened in terror as he hefted it over his shoulder and turned back to face me.  
A massive black marble scythe with a skeleton imbedded in the handle rested atop his hands. He glanced at me once more, eyes flashing green with the curved edge of the lethal blade.   
“Y-y-y-y...” I whispered.   
“This is what I’m here for,” he sighed, fresh tears spilling out. “I wish it weren’t so.”  
“No, please!” I screamed, sliding myself backwards across the debris. “Please— I can’t-!”  
The mortician stepped forwards and planted his heeled boot right on my chest. Gasping in pain, I covered my face with my hands and stared up at the scythe, quivering and crying.  
“P-please,” the Undertaker whispered. “Don’t make this... any more difficult than it has to be.”  
The paralyzing fear I felt at staring death in the face tied my tongue right to the back of my throat. The mortician lifted the scythe above his head and slowly lowered it until the tip rested delicately in the dip in my clavicle, just at the edge of my throat. He hovered it a couple of times before lifting it up high.   
I screamed again and thrashed underneath his weight, my breaths ragged with panic. He whipped the scythe downwards. I could hear it singing through the air, along with the crackling fires that littered the ground around us. I felt the pressure change and I threw my arms over my face. This was it. My life was over.   
I heard the clang of metal and flinched as a stone bounced across my hand.   
The Undertaker shuddered once and stepped off of me. I shrieked and rolled away, coughing and gagging, crying from panic. Kneeling on the ground, I could see the massive scythe buried in the ground, biting through the brickwork next to where I had been laying. The mortician was heaped on the ground next to it, gripping its intricate handle desperately for support.   
“I... I can’t, I can’t,” he whispered, sobbing once more.   
I doubled over and coughed again. Realizing my knee was burning, I rolled off of the fire and laid on my back, staring up at the stars.   
“When did... night fall?” I asked.   
“The explosion happened four hours ago,” the Undertaker whispered.   
“Why... haven’t... emergency crews found me?”   
The mortician sighed. “You’re... dead, m’dear. You’re deceased. They’re busy with survivors.”  
My mouth agape, I slowly pressed my fingers to my wrist. Then my neck.   
“N-no...”  
A large crash resounded across the ground. The building around us was collapsing into the basement.   
“Come back to London with me!” The Undertaker cried, holding his hand out towards me.   
“Why?” I screamed, curling away from him. “What are you?!”  
His hair was matted with brick-dust and blood. The pale hand outstretched was stained crimson, though glowing green.   
“Because-“ he was interrupted as half of the building fell away behind us, plummeting into the massive storm cellar below.   
“Because I can protect you there!” He shouted over the clamour of a huge wall of flame erupting next to us. “You’re a rogue soul if I don’t reap you! You need to be hidden!”  
I covered my eyes.   
Then the flooring underneath me caved in. My stomach and my tongue switched places, and my arms flew out to grab something. In the loose rubble, however, no salvation was granted. I fell. A beam broke my momentum halfway down, but I flipped around it like a wet cloth and hit the floor. My vision went blurry again and my breath was knocked out of my chest. My clothing caught fire and I sucked in nothing but smoke. The feeling of being seared alive panicked me, but I couldn’t move. Not fast, anyway. The fall had jarred my bones and joints.   
I rolled myself over, attempting to extinguish the flame. My eyes were watering and my lungs were screaming.   
Then a beam landed on my stomach. It punched me to the ground and pinned me.   
The last thing I saw before I suffocated was the mortician dangling from his scythe before dropping down from above.  
Death comes.


	7. Chapter 7

My lungs were still hurting. But only a little bit. The mild itch was nothing compared to the scorching ash from...  
Wait—  
How many nights was I asleep for?  
Where was I?  
How did I get here?  
And what, I wondered, am I wearing?  
I slowly lifted my arms. Long black sleeves flipped over themselves, draping down past my elbows.   
Glancing around myself, I noticed that the room I was in was fairly dark. Books lined one wall, organized in a tall black shelf, and a desk with a lamp was against the dark grey wall across from me. The platform beneath me seemed to be a table; a gurney of sorts, and I was bundled in white sheets.   
“How are you feeling?”   
I screeched and flew off the table. I hit the wall, but in the process of flailing in panic, I shoved the gurney away from me. It squeaked and rattled right into the newcomer.   
The Undertaker toppled overtop of it, tucking his shoulder in before he landed on the ground in front of me. I kicked him before I even realized who or what he was and he grunted and fell over. A tall top-hat fell off of his head and rolled slowly to a dramatic halt in front of me, a long black tail trailing behind it.   
“You scared me,” I whispered apologetically.   
“Obviously,” he groaned, pressing his hand into his side where I had just planted my heel.   
I glanced down at myself. I was in long black robes, draping down past my feet. I soon realized that the mortician, who was still laying on the floor in a mess of silver hair and black fabric, was indeed wearing the same ones.   
“Where are we?” I asked.   
The Undertaker pushed himself up on his arms with a little giggle. His bangs fell across his face and hid his eyes.   
“My shop,” he chuckled. “London.”  
My eyes widened. “Like, me, London? Or London, England?”  
“You’re not in California any more,” he replied.   
I stared at him. “How did you get me here?”  
The Undertaker pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Have you really not figured it out, dear?”  
I shook my head. “I’m... I’ve got ideas,” I murmured.   
The mortician laid his head down and stretched out on the floor, fingers curling. “I am a shinigami,” he yawned. “A grim reaper.”  
Silence. He blew hair out of his eyes and studied me as I found my voice.  
“You’re a death god?” I asked, incredulous. Then I crossed my arms. “I don’t believe this.”  
“I am seven hundred and thirty-one,” he smiled.   
I quirked my eyebrow. “So you are a virgin.”  
“So you do believe me,” he said, stabbing an accusatory finger at me. “And... that’s none of your concern.”  
“Of course I believe you!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands into the air. “I saw it happen! That’s what that was that night, right? You were... reaping people. It’s just... difficult to wrap my head around, is all,” I murmured, shyly curling back in on myself.   
The mortician nodded and pushed himself gracefully up onto his feet, heeled boots clicking against the cold floor.   
“How are you feeling?” He repeated, gently pulling me to my feet before delicately touching my neck and my ribs.   
“Like I fell two stories through a burning building and had a beam fall on me after that,” I coughed, lifting my arms to allow him to examine.   
He poked at my sternum gently and then carefully ran his hands down the sides of my ribcage. Then he checked each arm in turn and tilted my head back and opened my mouth. I complied with every action, too tired and confused to really do anything else.   
“You still have a little bit of ash residue in your throat, so it may feel tickly for a while. Cough when you need to and drink plenty of water,” he advised.   
I nodded and leaned my head forwards against him.   
The mortician tensed. I closed my eyes, listening for his heartbeat. Of course, I found nothing. My knees gave out. I knew I was going to black out again. I reached out to grab onto something, and I felt the mortician wrap his arms around my waist. I’m certain he had still been pondering how he should react to my strange proximity, until the body in front of him just decided to fall over.   
It was a win for me anyway. 

After... I don’t know how long, I didn’t ask. — I woke up again.   
The door to my right thankfully remained shut; no more sneak attacks from Mr. Undertaker.   
I padded over to it after hopping off of the gurney. Rubbing at my eyes, I pressed my ear against the door and heard voices. As such, sleep-fatigued me figured throwing open the door would be a smart move.   
I threw open the door.   
The mortician was at an entryway across the room from me, chatting with a tall, lean, and ultimately dark man and a young boy beside him.   
The child glared at me in surprise and the Undertaker spun on his heel.   
“Ah,” he declared, clapping his hands together. “London is awake.”  
“Wha- London?” The boy said, obviously confused. “Do you ever make sense? Who is this?” He demanded, gesturing at me sharply.   
The mortician waved me forwards. Hesitantly, confused as to where I was and why a child was yelling at me, I edged towards them about an inch.   
“This is London,” the Undertaker explained, holding out a taloned hand. “And London now lives here with me.”  
The child stared at me, open-mouthed. The tall man beside him reached around and lifted his chin until his lips met again.   
So, his butler, then.   
“Who- how-“  
“I’m just as confused as you are,” I shrugged.   
“An American,” the butler murmured. The small child reeled back, and I shrugged again.  
The mortician stepped forwards to block them from view. More words were exchanged and the pair departed from... wherever we were.   
Glancing around, I noticed that the various ambiguous black blocks scattered across the floor in rows were coffins. The mortician observed me quietly as I stared around at the dark and somewhat cold shop, wrapping my arms about myself and frowning in concentration. I took a few steps forward hesitantly as the weight of my situation dawned on me. I was not in California any more. In fact, I wasn’t even... alive any more.   
As soon as he saw me touch my wrist again, I think he knew that something was wrong and that something was about to happen.   
My vision jaded over. I was stuck here. I wasn’t even where I was supposed to be and now, now I had no way out. Slowly, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My skin froze and tingled with adrenaline. Through the darkness, my eyes drifted back until they settled on him. I stared at his tall and imposing form as I stood perfectly still, sudden terror gripping me.   
This was panic- this was inescapable. This entire place was.   
What was he? What had I seen? What would happen now? How many others died?  
So many questions.   
So much fear.   
So much tension in the dusty, silent air between us. My feet got ready to run, my mouth opened to scream. Yet I stood still. Deathly. Still.   
In hindsight, I can see how desperately steady the Undertaker forced himself to be as well. Undoubtedly, he could see the dread settling over me. I don’t know how long he stood like that as I stared at him. Probably only a couple of seconds, but to me, it felt like an eternity.   
Then something snapped inside me. A dam broke somewhere, and I darted away. The very moment that my muscles sprang to life, so did the mortician’s, and he took off to chase me, white hair snapping through the air after him.   
Leaping to the side, I stumbled on the long robes that were whipping chaotically at my feet and hit the ground. The floor was cold and unforgiving. Scrabbling against it, I pushed myself onto my knees, staggering to my feet shortly after and running on.   
I didn’t know how close he was, all I knew was that I had to escape.   
I actually tumbled over a coffin. I tripped and fell, flying through the air before banging my hands and knees quite hard on the floor.  
My panic process having been interrupted by the injuries, I slowly flipped over and curled into myself, sitting up and pulling my knees in. Staring sadly at my hands before rubbing my knees, I whimpered miserably as the panic faded and pain set in. The mortician finally caught up with me, and I sniffed, feeling foolish for the tears that now ran down the sides of my face. Attempting to wipe them away with my long sleeve, I glanced up at him, ashamed.  
His expression was one of concern and he knelt next to me, carefully lifting each leg over the coffin before lowering himself to the ground. As he reached out his hands to examine my injuries, I leaned back, pressing my hand over my mouth as fresh tears boiled over out of my control.   
I glanced once more at his eyes, and I broke, collapsing forwards and sobbing into his shoulder.   
I felt foolish. I felt foolish even as I cried harder.   
Curling my fingers into his robes, I pulled myself against him and positively sobbed, wailing and trying to form some sort of apology at the same time. Comfortingly, he ran one set of pale fingers through my hair while his other arm wrapped around me, warm and secure.   
“I... I... don’t...know...” I managed to hiccup out, weeping more.   
He just hummed a little in response and rocked gently from side to side.   
The tears subsided after a few more moments spent that way.   
I pushed away from him and he let me go, watching me as I rocked back on my heels and wiped my eyes.   
“Sorry,” I murmured quietly.   
“No apology needed, m’dear,” he smiled, waving a diffident hand. “It’s a lot to handle.”  
“It just seemed so... so wrong for a few moments; staying here, I mean. I mean— I don’t even know where here is, and I just-“  
The Undertaker lightly pressed his finger against his lips.   
“I understand. You do still have choices, y’know,” he giggled, and I frowned in confusion.   
“What kind of... choices?” I whispered, hugging my knees to my chest and placing my chin upon them.   
“Well,” the mortician began, rising elegantly to his feet and holding out his hand. “You can still leave. You’re in London, and it will be difficult for you to find your way elsewhere, since you are nameless in this world now. Personally, I recommend that, for your safety, for now at least, you stay here with me. You’re not going to be kept hidden away in a dungeon. You’ll be my apprentice of sorts, until the locals know you, and then you can head outside and do whatever people do with their freedom. Other reapers may come looking for you, however— and if they reap you, I cannot save you again. I can only keep you safe if I am physically there to stop them from doing so.”  
He smiled sadly as my eyes widened in anxiety over it all. He flicked his fingers towards himself. “Come on, dear. I can’t stop you from fleeing if that is what you wish, but, life here is not prison. You just have to deal with silly little me sometimes,” he giggled.   
“That may not be so bad,” I smiled tiredly. “As long as I don’t have to wear any bowties.”  
The mortician burst out laughing. “Maybe I’ll make it part of the uniform,” he snickered. “Black robes and a pink bowtie.”  
“I’ll kill you, I’ll do it, I’m not afraid to take on a death god,” I threatened.   
“I believe you,” he defended, holding up his hands and leaning back. Then a thought seemed to occur to him, and he tilted his head. “Speaking of uniforms, I suppose we’ll need to get you your own clothes at some point soon, hmm?”  
I looked down at myself. “What, you don’t think I look cute enough in yours?” I jested, flipping my arms out and dramatically snapping the sleeves around.   
The mortician giggled again. “While I do think the style rather suits you, m’dear, I think that for practicality’s sake, we should get you a tailor to make you some clothes that are more appropriate.”  
“A tailor?!” I exclaimed. “I don’t need a bloody tailor! I can just go to some... regular... boutique or whatever,” I explained.   
He smiled and shook his head sadly. “See, that’s just not quite how it works any more. You’re not exactly... well, you’re not exactly in your year. Did you notice the clothing the earl was wearing?”   
I stared at him, then blinked hard. “So what, I... I travelled back in time?”  
The Undertaker nodded and I rolled my eyes. “What next,” I muttered.  
“Well you see,” he began. “I’m actually retired. A retired reaper. I’m done reaping.”  
“But, that night—“  
“Yes, I was reaping. Because sometimes, there’s glitches in the system that send souls backwards or forwards in the dispatch logs.”  
“That made absolutely no sense.”  
“I know. Bear with me. All you need to know is that when these issues occur, and a time loop is in danger of forming, they send specialized reapers in to sort out the mess,” he continued, leaning this way and that as he explained. “I was in charge of tying up the loose ends. I did so— the only one I didn’t tidy was, well, you. And that’s okay, because I still sealed off the event, and no time loop can occur there. Once the other reapers come looking for you and realize it is me they must face, they will leave you be.”  
Most of the words he said went in one ear and out the other. “B-but why don’t you just... tell them, then?”  
The mortician chuckled. “Because it’s easier to bring them to me than to go to them. They will soon enough. And there’s a particular redhead that I will likely have to scare off multiple times.”  
“Okay,” I murmured slowly. Then I glanced up at him. “Well. That was a lot of information, and I think I need to lay down.”  
With that, I flopped onto my back on the cold floor and covered my eyes with the long black sleeves. The Undertaker laughed again.   
“Anyways,” he continued, and I glared at him out of the corner of my eye. “The point is, American Eagle and Pink don’t exist yet, so, we’ll just get a tailor to make you a trio of nice... various whatevers, whatever you want, be it robes or pants or whatever,” he sighed, waving his hands about.   
I hummed to myself. “Maybe I’ll stick with robes, but, more my size,” I chuckled. Slamming my hand over my mouth, I giggled out: “I’m laughing too much. I’m becoming as mad as you are!”  
Both of us burst out laughing again.   
“Is that bad?” He murmured, straightening up and pressing two ghostly fingers against his mouth. He studied me from above, hand still outstretched. I finally grasped his fingers and hauled myself to my feet in front of him, the long robes waving lightly as I swayed to a standstill.   
Placing his other arm around my waist, the Undertaker slowly spun us around before releasing me and stepping back. With a mysterious smile, he shook his bangs in front of his eyes and tapped his way over to the counter he had been seated on earlier. Retrieving a top hat with a tail, he planted it lightly atop his head and patted it once.   
“As such, I will be leaving momentarily to fetch this tailor. I’m certain she will have room in her schedule for you. However, I must warn you,” he said in hushed tones, spinning on his heel. “She’s a bit... eccentric.”  
“And you’re not?” I accused, folding my arms and lifting my eyebrow.   
He waved a talon at me. “I’m fun eccentric,” he giggled. “She’s loud eccentric. I love her to death, but, I may be a bit deaf after this coming encounter,” he tapped his ear before spinning round again.   
Producing a key from his pocket, he gave me further instructions. “Make yourself at home. It should take dispatch a few more days to process your paperwork— they won’t come looking for you yet. Still, don’t open the door for anyone, hmm? And if people do come knocking, ensure the windows are shut. If they do not leave, hide yourself somewhere. There’s many empty caskets in the attic.”  
I swallowed thickly and nodded. With a simple wave of his hand, the mortician suddenly vanished from the shop; a shadow with long white hair.   
I was left to my devices.


	8. Chapter 8

Indeed, I was left on my own for an hour or so before the Undertaker arrived back. Both of us were slightly relieved when the time passed without incident— although, he tried to hide it.   
A woman in a great frilly skirt showing off her legs bustled in behind him, chirping something about new customers and “Let me see! Let me see!”  
The moment that she set eyes on me, she darted right past the mortician, nearly toppling him in her haste. He straightened his top hat and chuckled, pushing the door shut behind them.  
Meanwhile, I was suddenly attacked by this crazy female. She grabbed onto my shoulders, spouting absurd phrases about how interesting my body was. She lifted my arms and poked at my ribs before running her hands down my sides. She whipped out a measuring tape and wrapped it around my legs and ankles, and down my arms. Her excited fingertips ran up my neck and down my back. She ordered me to step forwards, backwards, lift my arms— she measured across my shoulders and around my waist.   
“Feed this one more, Undertaker!” She snapped, and he put a defensive hand on his chest.   
“I’ve only had ‘em for two days! Give me some time, woman!”  
“You need to eat more too,” she scowled at him, poking his shoulder through with a pin. He yelped and danced away. I roared with laughter, never having seen someone more commanding and bizarre than the Undertaker himself. He threw his top hat at me in protest. Dodging it easily by ducking under its trajectory, I ran and huddled behind the woman, who brandished pins at the mortician in warning. Then she turned back to me and quipped, “I’ll be back tomorrow with three sets of robes—“ she leaned down and whispered in my ear, “—better than his, of course.”  
“Of course,” I chuckled back, and she stood up straight. “And one suit set.”  
“Suit set?” I asked.  
“Unisex suit set,” she chirped. “They’re all the rage right now. Would you prefer gold or copper embossment?”   
“Copper,” I replied slowly after a moment of thought. I glanced at the mortician for approval. He just shrugged helplessly and gestured to the woman, who was happily placing her tapes and pins back somewhere in her dress.   
“Yes, yes, tomorrow, yes,” she muttered.   
The Undertaker showed her out the door and locked it behind her.  
“I think I might need to lie down after that,” I breathed.   
“You’re very welcome to,” he laughed, gesturing at the coffins surrounding us.   
I shuddered. “On second thought, I’m fine.”  
“Aren’t you just,” he agreed, giggling to himself and swaying away. He removed his hat and placed it on the desk as he passed it. Lifting himself easily, he perched on the edge next to his hat and tilted his head, exposing one double-ringed eye to look at me. After a silent minute, he kind of shook himself back into the moment and spread his hands with a wide smile.   
“Is there anything you would like to do, here? We can go for a walk later tonight, if you’d like, when it’s dark. While you’re dressed in my clothes, it may be best to avoid the public eye— you being here is scandalous enough.”  
“Sorry,” I murmured, casting my eyes down. “I never meant to be a problem—“  
“You’re not, I apologize for the wording,” he remedied quickly. “It’s just that the less attention we attract, at least until you have clothes, the better.”  
I nodded and sat on a casket behind me, carefully feeling the polished wood with the pads of my fingers.   
“So what do we do until then?” I asked shyly, glancing back up at him.   
He shrugged and leaned forwards on his hands, long white hair spilling down over his shoulders.   
“Anything you like.”

We actually spent the next few hours with him teaching me British lingo, things like “lad” and “chips” and other things. “Chips” were fairly new to these people, apparently. He went over etiquette rules, most of which went right over my head. However, I learned a little of the general culture. We readied for sleep, him setting me up in his bed while he used pillows and comforters on the floor right next to me. I had insisted that we trade, but, he’s bigger than me, and he insisted otherwise. Little me decided to continue fighting that point, however, and as he pulled off his boots and began to layer down, I glared at him and folded my arms, pouting from my spot on the bed.   
“I still think I should sleep on the floor.”  
“That’s nice,” he replied.   
I was about to continue fighting when he pulled his white undershirt off over his head, leaving his top half bare. I stared only for a moment. His chest had one long scar that arced across it diagonally, from his right shoulder down beneath his ribs on his left side. The one around his neck was clearer without the shirts hiding it. The juvenile giddiness one feels when looking at a part of someone else which is usually hidden sparked to life, and I blushed and glanced away. He laughed.   
“That will teach you not to stare,” he murmured. “It’s impolite.”  
Afraid that my face may burst for how red it was, I fell over into the blankets and buried it there.   
“Shut up,” I growled.   
I heard him humming to himself, heedless of my demands as he further undressed and redressed. After a few more minutes, he cleared his throat.   
“You can look, now, m’dear,” he chuckled.  
I did so.  
He was now wearing loose black pants that trailed behind him on the floor, and a grey long-sleeved shirt with four buttons leading up to a sloping v-neck.   
“Handsome,” I said honestly. “In the simplest way possible.”  
The compliment caught him off guard, and his eyebrows jerked up in surprise. He quickly collected himself, and bowed slightly before seating himself on the blankets on the floor. Settling himself in, he pulled the lantern over to himself.   
I planned on sleeping in his robes, since I had nothing else and they were soft.   
He held the lantern, the glow illuminating his delicate features warmly.   
“Shall I turn the lights out, or do you need more time?” He asked kindly.  
I stared at him for a moment, before a grin split my mouth behind my control and I launched forwards.   
“I’m sleeping on the floor!” I shouted as I collided with him.   
My body hit him square in the chest, toppling him backwards. He made a soft noise of protest as the air was punched right out of his throat. One of his arms wrapped around me instinctually while the other maintained its deathgrip on the lantern, holding it directly above us.   
Refusing to look up at him, I laid my head down to the side and giggled.   
“You’re sleeping in the bed,” I commanded.   
“No,” he sighed. “I’m sleeping on the floor. You’re sleeping on the bed.”  
Setting the lantern down off to the side, casting eerie shadows dancing across the room as he did so, the mortician sat back up, lifting me with him against my will. His other arm wrapped around my back tightly and he stood up. I eeped as my feet were lifted off the ground. Taking two quick steps forwards, he deposited me on the bed. I grabbed onto the collar of his shirt, ensuring that when he went back to the floor, he’d inevitably take me with him, so that I could get there first.   
He braced his palms against the cot on either side of my shoulders. His silky hair tickled my neck as it draped over us both. Glaring icily down at my grip, he said:  
“Seems like a familiar position. There’s a specific piece of fabric missing, however.”  
“I hope that piece of fabric burned in the gas explosion,” I growled, my knuckles whitening with effort.   
The mortician giggled and glanced back up at me. The lamplight made his eyes glow, a darker, much more natural colour than they usually seemed to be. He smiled lightly at my shy observance of him.   
His eyes moved. I watched it happen, but those little moments, when you know what’s about to happen, seem to still not make sense every time they occur. His gaze darted down to my mouth, just for a moment. Half a second. Not even.   
He gently leaned forwards. I felt his body press against mine lightly from the way he was standing. He was warm. This wonderful feeling was still new, and still strange, and the overwhelming adrenaline boost I received almost made me cry.   
I closed my eyes as his mouth slowly drifted onto mine. The tender flesh that resides in one’s mouth never can quite remember the way it feels until it happens again. Wet, and warm. I maintained my grip on his shirt the entire time. When he pulled back after a few moments, he was breathing slightly harder than usual, and he was flushed and flustered.   
I imagine I wasn’t much better, but I was immediately distracted when he managed to rip his shirt free of my grip. Having done so, he danced away, sticking his tongue out childishly as his hair, now dishevelled, flew about him.  
I lunged off of the bed and took him down like a football player. He yelped in surprise and caught himself on his arms while I fell at his feet.   
“You’re not! Sleeping! On the floor!” He shouted.   
“You’re! Not! Either!” I growled back. “If you are, I am. One way or the other, I’m not kicking my host out of his bed willingly.”  
He glared down at me and I glared right back up, heart still hammering away.   
He jumped to his feet and grabbed me by my wrists. At the same moment, I leapt forwards again and flipped over him, entirely unintentionally. He was yanked backwards as I landed and slid disgracefully on the long robes I was wearing. We were both pulled down onto our backs, heads beside each other and feet pointing opposite directions.   
He sighed dramatically. “Y’know, if you’d just slept on the bed—“  
“Oh, so this is my fault now? Well if you hadn’t freakin assaulted me in the first place—“  
“Well maybe if you knew how to tie a bloody bowtie—“  
He kicked up and flipped over me. I cringed away as he flew overhead, and then he landed in a crouch. He quickly fell to straddle my hips. I pulled at my hands, both of us still giggling and yelling obscenities and accusations at each other the whole while. Eventually I got a hand free and wasted no time punching him in the chest as hard as I possibly could, making him falter for just long enough that I managed to roll us both so that I was on top. Kicking upwards again, he launched me into the air like a rocket. I landed on the bed, miraculously, and he pushed me back down as I made to leap off.   
He was definitely flustered now, breathing hard. With wild hair and glinting eyes, he planted his palms solidly against my shoulders.   
“Stay,” he panted. “On. The bed.”  
“I just want you to know,” I huffed, “that the second that you slip up, I’m going right back down on the floor!”  
We both slept on the bed.


	9. Chapter 9

Both of us were awakened at six o’clock in the morning by a sharp and excited knocking at the door.   
Well, an endless stream of hyper tapping, at least.   
The mortician jerked awake.   
“Aah!” He grumbled, cursing under his breath as he leapt up. He kicked the covers on the way by; I assumed to release frustration. I rolled over and rubbed my eyes, yawning somewhat loudly.   
As soon as the Undertaker had the door unlocked, the tailor burst into the room.   
“Do you sleep, woman?” He shouted, as she ran into the shop with a burlap bag slung over her arm.   
“Why sleep when you can sew?” She bubbled. The Undertaker pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.   
“Because sleep is a necessary aspect of human life!”   
She waved him away. I tried to hide under the blankets, but we made eye contact before I managed. Bouncing happily, she ran up to the room, but stopped dead in the doorway. Tinging slightly red, she turned to the Undertaker and pointed at the bed.   
“Did you two...?” She coughed.   
The mortician burst out laughing.   
“No! Of course not! I slept on the floor. Can’t you tell by how messy it is? And I thought you knew fabric,” he shook his head and clicked his tongue sardonically, folding his arms and leaning back against his desk.   
She shook herself, frilly skirt bouncing and swaying dangerously. “Of course, of course, my apologies,” she twittered, reaching forwards and physically dragging me from the bed.   
“Now, to get that off you,” she chirped, lifting the mortician’s robes right over my head before I had a chance to protest.   
I heard the Undertaker cough awkwardly in the other room. When the black cloth was removed from my vision, I could see that he had looked away, no doubt turning a little bit rouge himself.   
The tailor cackled and tossed the robes over her shoulders. Reaching into the bag on her arm, she withdrew another set of black. I held my arms out per her sharp instruction and she slid the robes on me like a coat; up over the shoulders, button together at the front. They were tight and high at the neck, but gradually loosened and opened as it went down. Over that she placed a black vest with copper patterning along the hems, along with copper-embossed buttons with the letter L stamped on each one. London. Beneath, I wore tight black pants. She had even thought to somehow acquire me underwear- looser than the typical modern American style, but I knew I could get used to it. That, along with stockings, and the general day-to day outfit was set.   
I gaped at her in amazement. Ignoring me, she turned back to the bag. I switched my astonished gaze to the Undertaker, who shrugged again and giggled to himself.   
The energetic woman whipped out a pair of boots, which I had to dodge.   
“Here!” She shrieked gleefully.   
She ordered me to sit on the bed. Applying the shoes to my feet, she smiled and told me to walk around.   
They were tall black boots— not as tall as the mortician’s, and with only one copper buckle across the top. I loved them— they clicked menacingly on the floor when I walked.   
The tailor handed me a coat as well; an overcoat, with one of those weird shoulder coverings for rain water to run off of. After that came a small collection. Three more versions of the same basic robes, and three more pairs of underwear, stockings, and pants as well.   
“You will be well-stocked in a base outfit until I return, whenever he calls me,” she waved a diffident hand in the general direction of the mortician, who had watched the entire scene unfold with interest.   
“Th-thank you,” I murmured, glancing down at myself. “This is incredible!”  
“Oh!” She shouted, causing me to leap out of my skin. Holding up a finger, she dug around in the bag again, reaching to the very bottom. “I almost forgot,” she winked, before yanking out a tiny little piece of blue and black fabric.   
She handed it to me.   
“A bowtie,” she smiled.   
I took the fabric.   
I smiled and thanked her through clenched teeth.   
The Undertaker, meanwhile, was rolling on the floor of the shop behind his desk, laughing.   
I was going to strangle him with it as soon as she left.   
I really was.   
Count your seconds, death god.


	10. Chapter 10

As soon as the tailor was gone out the door I leapt upon the mortician and knocked him down. I whipped him lightly across the face with the tie. He put his arm up, but kept laughing.  
“I-I can’t believe-“ another wave of laughter interrupted him when he noticed my death glare.  
“I can’t b-believe she did it,” he wheezed, trying to flip himself over.  
My eyes widened. I punched at his shoulder.  
“You- JERK! You had her make this, didn’t you?!” I shouted, shaking the bowtie in his face. He batted me away, nodding unashamedly through his laughter.  
A knock at the door cut us off.  
The Undertaker fell deathly still.  
“Go into the other room, and hide around the doorframe,” he murmured in a low and serious whisper. “But leave the door open.”  
My eyes widened as the gravity of the situation dawned on me. I frowned.  
“You don’t think it’s the tailor?” I whispered back.  
He looked at me sharply. “Go,” he commanded, pushing me to my feet.  
I scurried away, eyes darting around for the doorway to the bedroom. There it was. Dashing to my left, I whipped into the dark corner behind the next wall just as another, more impatient knock echoed in the shop.  
I heard the Undertaker step towards the door and pull it open.  
“Patience, dear William,” he purred. I had to strain my ears to hear him. Resisting the urge to glance around the doorframe was an all-consuming effort.  
“Sorry, sir.” A new voice. Still male, but discreetly polished and professional. A foreign set of footsteps resounded around the shop, joined by another, louder and sharper set.  
“I see you have brought Grelle with you,” the mortician noted politely, and I heard the front door of the shop shut.  
“Yes indeed~” a feminine voice now, but too low to be a girl. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”  
“Overjoyed,” the mortician muttered.  
My breathing sounded loud to me and I tried to stop my imaginary heart from beating for fear it would make such racket.  
“How can I help you, William?”  
“Well, sir, I don’t mean to intrude, but there’s been a slight issue in the systems with the incident with the hotel, in California.”  
“I recall the mission,” the Undertaker affirmed, allowing the— what I surmised was another reaper— to continue.  
“Dispatch has noticed an error in the amount of souls that required reaping and those that were delivered,” said William.  
“I told Will that you had nothing to do with it~” the higher voice piped up in a dramatic sigh. “But he wouldn’t listen.”  
“I just have to check,” William riposted defensively.  
There was a strange moment of silence.  
“Based on your history, Undertaker, it is dispatch’s responsibility to ensure that your experiments have no longer continued. Are you aware of the soul discrepancy?”  
“Yes, I am,” the Undertaker murmured softly.  
I heard a sharp intake of breath, and I assumed it was from the girlish reaper, Grelle.  
“You’re not~”  
“No,” the Undertaker sighed. “Of course not. However, I did keep one little soul all to myself,” he giggled. “Just one.”  
There was another heavy silence, and I waited, a mixture of fear and curiosity bubbling in my mind. I gripped the bowtie that I still clutched in my hand until my knuckles were white.  
“I do not understand, sir,” William finally said, clearing his throat awkwardly.  
I heard the Undertaker sigh, and I dared risk a peek around the doorframe. Just for a second.  
Both of the new reapers had their backs to me. Both were tall and lean; one of them sported short jet-black hair and was clad in a business suit, while the other flaunted long red locks and a loose red coat. In one’s hand I saw tall pruning shears, shining in the dim lights of the shop, and the other had his fingers wrapped daintily around a massive red chainsaw.  
I felt the blood drain from my face and ducked back behind the wall.  
“Well, gentlemen— or, gentleman and lady, rather— when you find something special, you keep it for yourself, right? Sentimental value, and all that. Since the soul wasn’t particularly dear to either of you, but very dear to me, I kept it for myself. The soul is safe, I assure you. It will never pose any danger later in the future; it is under my protection,” he whispered, something mildly threatening in his tone. “And they will not be a problem for you so long as you cause no problems for them or I.”  
“Sir, as current head of dispatch, I must insist that you please show me the soul,” William said sternly.  
The mortician sighed. “Very well. London, please come here,” he called.  
My throat tightened and my tongue glued itself unpleasantly to the top of my mouth. Pulling my hands up to my chest, I held the bowtie carefully, as though it may protect me. I had to trust the Undertaker. I had to.  
I took a deep breath and stepped around the wall, the three footsteps I took clicking loudly on the floor.  
The two reapers spun on their heels at the same time. Grelle, the redhead, nearly let his glasses slide off his face in the process. William reflexively whipped his scythe, the shears, around in his hand.  
Before he even gripped them again, the Undertaker’s own death scythe was in the way, the curving blade wrapping around William as the mortician lurked just behind the raven reaper.  
“You might want to watch where you point those,” the Undertaker hissed.  
William froze, eyes on the blade in front of him. Then he glanced at the redhead, who was looking at him, stunned. The dark reaper jerked his head towards me, and Grelle snapped his mouth closed and grinned. All in less than a second, the redhead lifted his chainsaw and revved it up, dashing forwards at me.  
I stumbled away from him, my back hitting the wall behind me. In a complete panic I threw my arms over my face, certain that the last thing I would hear would be a chainsaw rending my flesh.  
I felt the air change in front of me and I flinched. Metal ground against metal and I felt soft fabric against my hands.  
The Undertaker was standing in front of me, scythe handle up against the red reaper’s scythe.  
“I was nice, last time, Grelle!” He shouted above the chaotic screeching of the metal. I had never heard him shout. It was much clearer, much more musical than his usual gravelly voice. “Don’t push me!”  
“You can’t hurt me!” Grelle screeched back.  
Without another word, the Undertaker flicked his wrists and sent the littler reaper flying across the shop. I winced as the redhead crashed into the wall, cried out in pain, and slumped to the floor, chainsaw clattering to the ground harmlessly beside his crumpled form.  
Suddenly, William attacked the Undertaker from the side, but the mortician swung his scythe around in time to block him. Simultaneously, he whacked me with the handle, shoving me back. I landed painfully on my hands behind him as he turned to face the dark reaper.  
“Sorry luv,” he said when I yelped in surprise, before he quickly engaged in a battle with William.  
The two braced their scythes against each other multiple times, blocking and giving ground equally. Then the Undertaker spun in a circle. The handle of his scythe swiped towards William’s face, and the formal reaper blocked it by holding his shears in the way. However, the Undertaker’s momentum knocked William’s scythe to the side slightly, and the curved blade that followed as the mortician finished his twirl nearly took William’s head off. The reaper leaned back sharply to duck beneath before he swung his own shears up in a frontal attack.  
The Undertaker, his scythe being awkwardly wrapped around himself, had to lift an arm in defence. At the last moment he caught the blades of the shears and directed the thrust above his own shoulder. Bringing his scythe back around, the Undertaker leaned back and kicked William straight in the chest. The dark reaper was obviously caught off guard and stumbled back, barely dodging the scythe attack that followed.  
I glanced at the red reaper off to the side, but Grelle was still unconscious and didn’t seem keen on waking up any time soon. Blood was beginning to accumulate on the floor around him.  
I whipped my attention back to the fight in front of me, scooting myself back just in time to not get stepped on by the Undertaker as William forced him back with a direct stab to the chest. The mortician and the raven-haired reaper almost seemed to be evenly matched. Both of them strained their muscles against each other, attacking each other with inhuman speed.  
I flinched and scooted back further. William glared at me over the Undertaker’s shoulder and jumped impossibly high, leaping directly over the mortician. I was too far back— he was going to simply pass his opponent and attack me directly.  
Following William’s movements, the Undertaker took two hurried steps back, deflecting William’s trajectory.  
I covered my head as the mortician stood directly over me, still keeping William at bay. The dark-haired reaper focused on spinning his shears directly at me, and I resisted the urge to scramble back in fear of getting too far away again. The Undertaker continued to defend the attacks, swiping the shears away with the handle of his scythe and attacking the younger reaper with the blade.  
Something in William’s face changed. I watched him through a crack in my fingers as the Undertaker twirled his blade towards William again. Instead of blocking, the young reaper ducked and simultaneously whipped his scythe down at me. The shears were in perfect line with my throat. As the blades swung towards me at light speed, my muscles acted of their own accord and my arms shot up. I screamed, which stopped the Undertaker mid-swing, the blade of his scythe wrapped around William’s torso.  
The shears never sliced my skin.  
I had caught them.  
I glanced up at William, and then up at the Undertaker, who was upside down from my angle.  
Both of their expressions were pure shock.  
Gripping the shears desperately, holding them just above my neck, I kicked the younger reaper in the shin. William, startled more than anything, limped back a step. This jarred the Undertaker out of his stupor, and the mortician used the blade of his scythe to swing the dark reaper much the same way he threw Grelle. William soared through the air for a moment before landing on the desk, shears dropping to the floor in front of him. Crawling forwards, I grabbed the shears and shakily jumped to my feet. I held the long pruning shears awkwardly, pointing the blades towards the reaper that was sprawled on the desk and taking wobbly steps backwards. I jumped when my back hit something, but it was just the mortician, and he placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder as I leaned into him. I could feel my eyes wide with terror and adrenaline.  
“William,” the Undertaker chuckled, chest heaving in exhaustion behind me.  
The younger reaper coughed and struggled for a moment, finally managing to prop himself up on his elbows. His face was cut, one lens of his glasses was broken, and his carefully combed hair was disheveled.  
The mortician and I must have been quite a sight. A young human pressed against a tall, creepy reaper for safety, the human jittering and shakily gripping pruning shears and the older reaper smiling with his scythe resting in his left hand.  
As soon as William’s attention was on us, the Undertaker giggled.  
“William,” he repeated, shaking my shoulder gently. “Meet London, the rogue soul, and my new shop assistant.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is less stressful than the others, and a bit... more... hot. Not a lot, just a little. Enjoy.

Grelle eventually picked himself up, after using his weird shinigami healing powers that I didn’t understand for long enough. William, still dishevelled, promised to the Undertaker and me that as long as I was under his care, he would no longer attempt to reap me.  
“However,” he warned us, as I handed him his scythe. “If for some reason,” he continued, bending down until he was eye-level with me. His irises were less luminescent than the Undertaker’s; they were colder, sharper, darker.  
“If for some reason he ever leaves you behind, or you leave him behind, I will hunt you until you are safely in custody of dispatch,” he growled. I shivered and huddled against the Undertaker, subconsciously drawing my arms up around myself.  
William straightened to fix his glare to the mortician. “Have I made myself clear?” He hissed.  
“Perfectly!” The Undertaker chirped happily. “Would you like a cookie before you leave?”  
William shook his head in disdain and tilted his head. “Good day, sir,” he coughed, turning on his heel and professionally exiting the shop with the red reaper close in tow.  
Grelle shot me a look over his shoulder, flashing pointed teeth at me in a flare of anger.  
The mortician coughed, and Grelle resentfully slid out the door.  
“Is that it?” I breathed as the door swung shut behind them. “Is it over?”  
“For a while,” the Undertaker sighed, stepping away from me. He walked over to where the battle between he and William had transpired and bent down. Standing awkwardly, I tapped my fingers together while anxiously watching him.  
“So,” he murmured, straightening up and turning back to face me halfway. Between his fingers and thumb he held a small piece of fabric. I must have dropped it at some point in the struggle.  
He lifted an eyebrow at me.  
It was so ridiculous, I burst out laughing. Chuckling along, the Undertaker rubbed the fabric with the pad of his thumb a couple times.  
“What do you say?” He giggled, glancing mischievously at me. “Shall we finish off your outfit?”

“I’m sorry about that,” the Undertaker murmured, leaning over me with the bowtie in his hands. I was on the bed, of course.  
I smiled. “It’s fine. It feels like such a long time since this has happened,” I chuckled.  
His lips twitched. “Did you miss our humble beginnings?”  
“Oh my god,” I sighed, slapping a hand to my head. “Thank god I don’t know how to tie a bowtie— it literally saved my life. Kind of,” I added, still not sure how this whole dead-not-dead thing was working.  
I felt his gentle fingers at the back of my neck and I titled my chin up, maintaining posture even as his angelic hair tickled my throat as he leaned down.  
I watched his eyes while his fingers worked their magic. I recognized some of the movements. When he finished, instead of moving back, he carefully traced the edges of my trachea, thumbs lightly pressing into the divots of my throat.  
“You put so much trust in me,” he murmured sadly.  
“Is that a bad thing?” I murmured back.  
With a sigh the Undertaker shifted to lay his hips atop mine, propping himself on his elbow on the bed. He was very close now. He lifted his other ghostly hand, causing me to flinch. But he simply gently let it fall against the top of my head, smoothing back my hair and occasionally running his fingers through it.  
“I should hope not,” he mumbled, leaning his cheek into his other palm and glancing down at me.  
My breath caught in my throat when I met his gaze, his eyes burning like green embers of a gentle fire just beneath his eyelashes. The small hitch in my airflow wasn’t much, barely making a sound, but my eyes widened and my mouth opened in quiet astonishment. The mortician noticed and chuckled.  
“Are you alright?” He giggled.  
“Just peachy,” I whispered, a shy smile flickering across my lips.  
His beautiful hair draped down around the both of us, blocking out the rest of the world as he leaned forwards. Suddenly the bed was a lot warmer; suddenly my life was a bit safer, there, with his mouth against mine. It was always surprisingly soft— never forceful, although, a small part of me wondered if that was subject to change.  
Almost certainly. That strange of a man must have some tendencies he regularly holds back, I thought. Especially from this time period.  
This thought in mind, I reached up and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, immediately making the kiss more intimate as I carefully tangled my hand in his hair.  
He snickered lightly against me as I responded before returning his attentions to my lips. His free hand rested itself upon my throat, carefully laid across one side and then against my shoulder.  
My face was reddening rapidly, I could feel it— with no time to wonder how that was happening without a heart to pump blood there— and the Undertaker lifted up slightly and glanced shyly at me, his own rouge spreading across his pale features.  
Here was my chance.  
Using the grip that I had in his hair, I pulled him back down into the kiss. He yelped in surprise and braced his arms against the bed on either side of me. Then he began to laugh, and there was a small pause for giggles before I yanked him back down onto me.  
It didn’t take much coercing this time, and the mortician responded with a daring flash of tongue against my lips.  
I fought the urge to giggle again and responded appropriately.  
He pulled back again.  
“I imagine,” he murmured, voice coated with the strange embarrassment of intimate vulnerability. “I imagine that you don’t really know what you’re getting yourself into.”  
I shrugged, lifting my eyebrows innocently. “What on earth do you mean, Undertaker? I’m just here, on a stranger’s bed, all small and vulnerable beneath him,” I winked and placed my hands against my chest. “It’s hardly my fault.”  
He took a moment to allow an appreciative smile to shine through before running his tongue over his teeth.  
“Well,” he breathed. “Small and vulnerable, hmm? I suppose I am nothing,” he murmured, leaning back and suddenly grabbing my wrists. As his grip encircled my skin, he pushed my hands above my head and pressed them into the bed. “—if not an opportunist,” he cackled lowly, leaning his forehead against mine.  
I squeaked in surprise. The sound was muffled almost immediately by the Undertaker’s mouth quickly assaulting mine. There was more pressure, more force behind each kiss and I lightly tugged at my arms once. This earned me no respite from his grip.  
“Hold still,” he growled.  
“Make me!” I hissed back, wiggling beneath him with what I hoped was a sly and seductive grin.  
Something worked, because he scowled and let go of my wrists. I was disappointed for a moment, thinking that the fun was over, but then he put his hands beneath my ribcage and shoved my further back onto the bed.  
Releasing another squeak of surprise as I flew through the air for a second, I flipped myself over and tried to crawl away from him, laughing to the point of tears as he gripped my ankle and pulled me back to him.  
He was laughing too as he pushed my arms down to the sides and slid his leg over both of mine, straddling my hips. The mortician leaned forwards and I screeched in mild competitive panic. He shifted his knee onto my arm and clapped his hand over my mouth firmly, chuckling, and trembling with the effort of multitasking. I narrowed my eyes as my voice was suddenly dampened.  
“What’s the matter, luv?” He purred. “Cat got your tongue?”  
“Actually, a secretly sadistic and probably domina—“ he slid his palm back over my lips when I managed to twist my head to the side.  
“That’s enough from you,” he ordered, sounding offended as he grinned maliciously.  
His oppressive presence was made all the more imposing when he leaned forwards again, hooding his eyes and leering at me.  
“Lest,” he breathed, “I gag you, with, perhaps, a bowtie.”  
Widening my eyes in true offence, I jerked my head to the side and thrashed, trying to free my arms. Rolling his eyes, the Undertaker sat back on his heels, releasing everything except for my hips. I propped myself up on my elbows. Then his nimble fingers reached for my throat. In reaction, I grabbed at his hand, holding onto his fingers so that he couldn’t touch my bowtie. His other hand struck forwards and I reacted in time to block that one as well. After a short tussle, the Undertaker pulling at his arms and me desperately clinging to his digits, he gave up and blew hair out of his face. Analyzing me for a moment, the mortician giggled to himself and shrugged.  
“Alright,” he said sweetly. “Have it your way.”  
Bending forwards dramatically, the Undertaker startled me into falling backwards. My shoulders hit the bed and he dipped his head, hair tickling my neck.  
“What— what are you do— no!” I shouted, recoiling but laughing as I realized what he was doing.  
It was too late, and the mortician pulled back with the untied bowtie held between his teeth.  
I swore and let go of his hands, planting my palms against his shoulders to hold him off. He pushed my hands away, planting his palms on my wrists against the bed once more. Tilting down, he put his mouth over mine as I tried to say something snappy. Before I had a chance to close my jaw, he had pushed his tongue with the bowtie draped across it far enough into my mouth. While that transpired, he transferred my wrists from his hands to beneath his knees again. Leaning back, his hands came up to my face and immediately yanked the bowtie tight into my mouth, despite my various noises of protest. He wrapped it around my head and tied it in a tight knot at the back.  
I glared up at him, defeated, my arms beginning to feel sore from fighting so much.  
“There we are,” he murmured, sitting back and melodramatically dusting his hands off. I folded my arms and glared off to the side. The Undertaker ran his hand through his hair, gently pulling it back from his face in great shaking silver locks. Sliding off of me, he stood in front of the bed. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, curious beyond my stubborn pout.  
Suddenly he reached forwards and grabbed the lapels of my coat, lifting me off of the bed without warning. I immediately wrapped my hands around his arms for support as I lost contact with the ground. Then we spun and he turned me around, carefully tossing me forwards slightly so that I stumbled to where he wanted me. I caught myself against the desk. The mortician pushed me forwards, grabbing the back of my neck and forcing me to bend. I felt his hips against mine as he leaned into me, placing his hands over mine and putting his mouth to my ear as his hair draped over us both.  
I could feel the warmth from his body being leeched by my flesh, his muscles pulled tight to hold me still. The desk was digging into the front of my hips.  
“Now then,” he hummed, breath hot against my ear. “Let’s have a little fun.”


	12. Chapter 12

I remember vivid flashes of the night. The time in between such memories is fuzzy, a haze of foggy pleasures and a little bit of pain as the mortician pushed a couple quiet boundaries.   
Both of us were too nervous with each other still to do all that much; this was new. Green, exciting, and exposing. He was still afraid of hurting me, and I was too shy to do anything except blush and enjoy myself.   
The clear moments in my memory made me shiver just to even think back on. He started it all by bending me over the desk. His hands had roamed, hesitantly feeling the flesh upon my stomach and ribs, palms running down the sides of my legs.   
Then it cuts to the Undertaker putting me against the cold wall, leaning his body weight against me and kissing me heatedly.  
His tongue was familiar now.   
Following this, there’s a moment where he grabs me my the throat and he grabs a little too hard, and I make a strange noise in fear and thrash away from him. Panic floods across his features and he lets go, pulling me towards him and holding me for a moment before slowly building the tension back up.   
There’s several instances where I motion to pull the bowtie from between my jaws, and he pushes my hands away, or holds them down before kissing me again. My complaints suffocate and die in his mouth.   
There’s a few more moments that I can remember; my nails digging into the back of his hands while he bit lightly at my neck, his hair gently tracing abstract patterns against my skin while he hovered above me, pale hands dipping under clothes to run long black talons against my flesh threateningly.   
I vaguely recall him growling specific phrases that made my skin tingle... phrases I am too embarrassed to recount.  
I now laid back on the bed, a few bruises beginning to blossom across my wrists and several bite marks lacing my throat.   
The mortician was seated on the edge of the bed next me. Breathing hard from the activities that had only recently ceased, I glanced at him. His hair was tangled. The front of his robes had been mysteriously opened and now hung free of each other, exposing most of his pale chest.   
From what I could see of his face, he was still a little entranced by the rush that came with being so close to someone.   
“Undertaker?” I asked tentatively.   
He turned to me, lifting an eyebrow and pushing his hair back.   
“Yes?”  
“What did the other reaper mean by experiments?”  
The question had been on my mind ever since. I still trusted the Undertaker, as much as I had to in order to survive; but curiosity was getting the better of me.   
The mortician’s smile faltered. With a sad sigh, he laid himself down next to me, propping himself up on one elbow and gazed down at me.   
“Well,” he began slowly. “I’ve always been... fascinated with humans. What they are and what they do. When I was actively reaping, I did some things I shouldn’t have. I experimented on the dead and the dying. I created weapons,” he murmured sadly. “I created zombies. They are beautiful,” he hummed, tapping his mouth with his finger. Then he shook himself. “They were, anyway. My creations all sank in the ocean aboard a doomed vessel and I escaped custody of Grelle, the red reaper, another younger reaper, and the butler, Sebastian. Henceforth, they’ve kept a sharp eye on all of their records and souls.”  
I swallowed hard. “So... why did you save me?” I whispered.   
“I have a distinct disregard for human life,” he murmured darkly. “Including my own. All reapers are suicidal souls, m’dear. However, occasionally there are souls that catch my interest; people that seem different, act different... deserve different,” he cooed, running his fingers through my hair. “I find no guilt in using my powers to hang on to those souls for a little while longer.”  
I smiled lightly. “There’s been others before?”  
The mortician paused, and his eyes jaded over as he travelled back in time in his head. “A couple,” he murmured. “Timelines are a bit strange in reaper-human relations. There was one named Langdon, and another... now, let’s see if I can remember the name...” he murmured. After a few seconds of thought, he shook his head sadly and smiled. “Nope. Gone. But I cannot always tell if they were before or after... I think... I think Langdon must be after, or... no... was that... Langdon must come after you,” he stated, suddenly assured of himself. “Because...”  
He drifted off for a few moments, before blinking back and gazing down at me. “It doesn’t matter,” he smiled. “As long as you don’t mind, I’d just like to be in this timeline for a while.”  
“This timeline is obviously the best,” I agreed, placing my hand against my chest with a grin.   
He fell back next to me, playing with his hair and gently touching a scratch I had left across his chest. “Obviously.”

“How long am I to stay here?” I asked, idly pulling a cloth across the top of a jar.   
The mortician paused, arm halfway up to replace a book to its original position on the shelf.   
“For as long as you should like. You can leave,” he offered. “Should you ever feel ready or want to. If you prefer otherwise, then, simply get used to this being a permanent home for you.”  
I frowned and put the jar back on the shelf in front of me, trying to ignore the contents and picking up the next jar. “You really don’t mind that? If I’m dead... Well, how long will I be here for?”  
The Undertaker shrugged, resuming action. “I’m not sure. We can deal with that when the time comes. You’re not even fully healed from the fire yet, so just relax, luv.”  
I sighed shyly, slightly relieved, and dusted off the jar before replacing it. My hand hesitated on the cool glass.   
“Can I go outside yet?”  
Pausing to glance at me, the mortician blew a silver lock of hair out of his face. “I won’t stop you.”  
I rolled my eyes and folded the cloth nervously. “I meant, do you think it’s safe?”  
He shrugged, pushing another thick leather book back in its place. “As safe as it ever will be, I suppose. At least for a few years, and I don’t think you want to be under house arrest for that long,” he murmured sadly.   
“No,” I replied, placing the cloth on top of the jar.   
“Then feel free to wander. Take a map of the town, that way you will not get lost. I will cross out neighbourhoods you may want to stay away from,” he smiled, stepping towards me and putting an arm about my shoulders. It was an oddly romantic move for the typically awkward Undertaker, but I allowed him to guide me to the desk in the corner. Scraping a drawer open, he lifted out a yellowed map. He tapped it with his nail, spreading it across the desk.   
“This is where the shop is. Think you can manage?”  
I nodded. “Of course. I actually took cartography in high school.”  
He blinked at me. “High school?”  
I waved my hand and scooped up the map, ducking away from him. “Just know that I’m certifiededly awesome at maps!”  
“Certifiededly...” he murmured to himself, pushing himself back up on the desk.   
I smiled reassuringly as I bolted for the door. Suddenly I was anxious to see the sky again; to feel the wind and fresh air. Part of me wondered if I even could. I glanced at him one more time. He was seated on the desktop, arms folded. His hat was off and sitting next to him. One glowing eye was fixated on me as he tapped his teeth with one long black nail idly. His legs crossed at the ankles, swinging slightly. He seemed nervous. Apprehensive.   
I smiled again and waved. “I won’t get lost! I’ll be back before dark,” I promised, pushing through the door and dashing out into the street. 

I felt free. The air on my skin caressed me coldly just the same as it had it when I was alive. It smelled different than California- it was dust and clay, not orange blossoms and gasoline. I sprinted down the streets, glancing at the map occasionally. The street signs came and went.   
For several hours, I walked around, exploring shops and parks. Women in frilly dresses walked by with their hands placed elegantly in the crooks of the arms of their men. Whenever a shop keeper asked me about my accent, I explained that I was a young foreigner looking to settle in Europe. I made my way, ogling strange antique jewellery and original spices.   
Eventually, the sun began to go down. I was still enjoying myself, strolling around and breathing the horse-scented wind. As the sky began to bruise with the sunset, I reached a pretty impressive statuesque tree. I guessed that it had been hit by lightning, as it was charred and petrified. I glanced at the map, trying to figure out where I was. Locating the street name, I noticed that there was an alley just two blocks away that looked like it would take me halfway back to the mortician’s home and save me at least half an hour of walking. It bordered some of the more dangerous neighbourhoods, but the Undertaker hadn’t crossed it out. Still, before heading for it, I scavenged the park for something to use as a weapon. Settling for a jagged stone, I slipped it into a pocket and headed for the alley.   
I shuddered when I neared it. The opening was darker than the twilight-bathed streets, and dusty. The tightly-packed cobblestones on the streets gave way to loose rubble, and I could see a bent metal... something... sticking half out of the ground, rusted. Cautiously, I pressed myself back against the building that bordered it. Peering around the edge, I couldn’t see anyone, which was good news. The end of the alley looked like it made a sharp turn. This matched my map reassuringly. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I glanced around anxiously one more time and folded up the map. Placing it in my other pocket along with my compass, I opted to hold onto my faithful stone instead.   
One foot went in front of the other and the rest of the world fell away. It was silent, and cold, the tall buildings on either side of me superimposing a darkness that made me feel uneasy. Regardless, I walked on. My ears were on the sharp and wary for any scuffling noises; you can imagine the harsh spike of fear that shot through me when someone spoke, nearly right on top of me.   
“Well, well, what’ve we got here~?” A whiny voice purred from behind.   
I whipped around. Someone dressed in a red coat with long firetruck-red hair was illuminated at the entrance of the alleyway, about ten yards behind me.   
He swung his chainsaw back around, perching it on his shoulder. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he sauntered forwards and flicked hair over his shoulder when I looked.   
“It’s the rogue soul,” the reaper purred, sliding up close enough for me to see his features.   
“You’re Grelle,” I said dumbly, heart beginning to beat faster.  
He placed a hand upon his chest dramatically. “Why, yes, child, who else would I be, hmm? Now, stand still for me for a moment dear—“  
“You know what will happen if you reap me,” I warned backing up a step and holding my hands up in defence. “Walk away, man. Or woman. Whatever you prefer.”  
He clicked his tongue, running it over his pointed teeth. “I’m somehow not surprised the old lunatic fell for an American,” he sighed.   
I narrowed my eyes. “Why do all you reapers do that?” I demanded.   
Grelle was taken aback by how forward the question was, and his chainsaw slid off his shoulder dejectedly. “D-do what?” He murmured, hesitantly twiddling his fingertips.   
“You all lick your own teeth so much,” I said, frustrated. “How can you not notice it? It’s weird.”  
The redhead seemed to take offence, but smiled to himself again and revved up his chainsaw.   
“Oh well~” he shrugged. “I don’t care what you think anyway.”  
“Don’t forget!” I hollered over the engine, stumbling backwards. “Who you will have to face!”  
“Are you kidding?” Grelle scoffed, lifting his chainsaw with both hands. “I’ll be protected and promoted if I get yooouu~! And an old man like that can’t get through the entire dispatch team. No, I think I’ll reap you,” he chuckled. “And maybe then dear William will pay me some respect!”  
Grelle hefted his chainsaw over his shoulder and ran at me. I turned and bolted down the alley, blood pumping and heart icy cold with terror. By my third step, the sharp stones ever threatening to take me down, it occurred to me that I should have been dead. Grelle was only chasing me at human speeds... he was making it a game. I kept running, tumbling over boxes and bottles along the way in the dark. I could hear him laughing and singing behind me as the sound of the chainsaw chased me. I had to keep going, and I readied myself for the sharp turn ahead.   
As I came up to the corner, my leg caught on some piece of plywood someone had chucked out their back door. It tore through my skin and I stumbled and fell, blood immediately pooling around me from the massive gash along my leg. My vision went blurry for a moment as I processed what had happened. Without my blood pounding in my ears, the dramatic injury seemed fake, the world distanced from me somehow in the silence. Grelle slowed to a walk and advanced on me. Crawling through the dirt and stones to the side wall, I curled against it and put my hands over my face as his shadow fell across me.   
“Please!” I shouted. “I can do anything for you, I can—“  
“Oh shut up,” Grelle snarled, kicking me hard in the ribs. I shrieked in pain and curled up further. “You think you’re so special,” he hissed, dragging his chainsaw across the cobblestones at his feet and leering down at me. The metal on the stones made a horrible grinding noise, and I flinched.   
“P-please—“  
“You think you’re so bloody special because Mr. Legend pays you a little attention, huh?” He sneered. “Out of all the ones that died that night,” he said, sweeping his arms out in a wide gesture. “You’re the one that got away. Because he chose you. Right? That’s what you think, right? You’re daddy’s favourite child? Huh?”  
I coughed. “Did you just call him daddy?”  
I was cut off halfway through the last word as Grelle screamed in rage and kicked me again. It was meant for my face, but I blocked it in time. The toe of his boot buried into my shoulder instead. I still yelped and buried my face in my arm. Something cold cut into my palm as I tensed, and I suddenly remembered; my rock!  
Lifting my head, I whipped the stone at the reaper. It caught him across the cheek and for a moment he stumbled back, pressing two fingers over the superficial gash that the stone had left. Then he turned to me and snarled.   
“You little shit!” He snapped, leaning over me. “How dare you! You know what, kid? You know what all this means? The fact that you ran away to London with some mystical and dark stranger? You’ve got fucking daddy issues!” He screamed, raising his chainsaw. I wept into my arm, the grinding metal so close to me that I could feel the heat radiating from it on my face and throat.   
Then a shadow dropped behind Grelle. White locks parted and a single fiery eye glinted in the darkness. Grelle whipped around just as the phantom raised its massive scythe.   
“Daddy’s home,” it growled, and swung the scythe down.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah baby, an update. Be proud. It’s still happening I promise. An ongoing effort.

“Imsorryimsorryimsorryimsor-“  
“For the last time, I’m not mad at you,” the mortician hissed as he tossed me through the doorway of the shop.  
“You’re sure acting like it!” I screeched back, landing on my butt on the floor and scooting away with my hands. The shop was dark, and cold.  
The door slammed shut behind him and he locked it, pale fingers barely visible in the dim light.  
Then he started towards me.  
“I was just trying to get here before dark, I didn’t know Grelle was there— I even took a weapon, I hit him with a rock— the alleyway was a bad idea, I’m sorry, I thought it would be okay— it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have gone at all, you shouldn’t have saved—“ Falling back, I shrieked and covered my face with my arms as he drew close, heels tapping menacingly on the unforgiving stone.  
I began to weep, adrenaline from the close-call with the chainsaw causing an emotional imbalance.  
The Undertaker passed me by, and I lowered my arms slightly, covering my face with my hands to watch him through my fingers.  
He stepped away from me, head bent low and shoulders and hands shaking. Then he stopped, and up from the green mists of time a scythe appeared. My veins flooded with ice, as the thought occurred to me that he might just reap me here and now, get it over with, finish the job—  
He stepped forwards and slashed the blade through the air. The curved metal sang as it whipped around in his hands, and his robes fluttered at his feet, flooding the floor of the shop with blinding green light. The breeze produced by the force with which he swung the weapon shifted my hair. Ducking my head back towards my chest, I threw my arms up again just in time to hear the targeted coffin shatter upon impact. Splinters of wood rained through the air, sent backwards by the pure force behind the blow. I flinched as another casket broke, crying harder as shrapnel littered the floor around me.  
Then the world was silent for a few moments, other than his breathing and my weeping. I could hear his voice dragging through each breath, something that had never happened before.  
I forced myself to lie completely still as the clicking footsteps made their way back towards me.  
Hearing the mortician sigh from above, I flinched again and cowered away when I felt him tap my side lightly with the toe of his boot.  
“M’dear,” he hummed softly.  
Peeking through cracks in my fingers, I noticed the hand hovering above me. Slowly, I uncurled myself and wiped at my eyes. I took the proffered hand and unsteadily pulled myself to my feet. Swaying slightly, I stumbled into his grip and clung to his robes, eyes dry but wide and lips and hands trembling. He placed a reassuring hand on the small of my back.  
“I’m not mad at you,” he breathed slowly. “I’m mad at Grelle.”  
At the red reaper’s name, the mortician’s hand curled angrily into my clothes. Before I could help it, I made a small noise of fear and shifted closer to him, arching my back to shy away from his grip. I squeezed my eyes shut and grit my teeth, ready for him to throw me across the room in his rage. My knuckles were white with the effort of my grip on his robes.  
This reaction seemed to bring the Undertaker back down, and he sighed, wrapping both arms fully around me and leaning his head down on top of mine. I felt his hair gently drape across my shoulders, a familiar and strangely comforting sensation. He was warm against the cold morgue.  
“I’m sorry,” I murmured into his chest.  
His hands drew back to my shoulders and he pushed me away to look. “You—you’re bleeding,” he cut himself off, eyes going wide.  
“Mm,” I replied and nodded apologetically, still hanging onto his robes for dear life as my vision began to grow fuzzy. “In fact, I think my leg is probably broken,” I murmured softly.  
I slumped forwards, and both of us looked back towards the door. A slightly darker stain on the floor indicated a trail from the entrance of the shop to where I had laid, bleeding, while the mortician destroyed coffins.  
The next few minutes grew rapidly blurrier as the amount of blood loss I suffered crossed the threshold from painful to dangerous.  
Lifting me up like some sort of seriously hammered bride, he laid me on top of the desk in the corner and disappeared. When he returned, I was feeling quite dizzy and sick. In his hands were two jars and some cotton strips. One jar I had cleaned off just a few hours earlier, and I knew exactly what it said on it.  
“Uh oh~” I whispered musically, giggling to myself and thumping my head back down on the desk. I clapped my hands once and folded them over my chest. “My body is ready.”  
The mortician glanced at me, and through his worry, managed a humourless laugh. “You are odd,” he sighed. “And that is pretty rich, coming from me. Ready, deep breath and count to ten for me—“  
The jar lid labelled “alcohol” popped open and the contents were poured over the massive gash in my leg. It stung so badly that the skin must have gone numb instantly. All I felt was cold, or like someone was pinching me really deeply in my bones, and then I was unconscious.

Strangely, I woke up undressed in a bathtub of warm water. Consciousness came about slowly, just teasing the edges of my eyelids while I slowly adjusted to being able to feel again. My leg pulsed slightly. The edge of the water itched around my shoulders as I dimly registered gelid hands carefully lifting the warmth over the sides of my neck.  
I waited, forcing myself to stay still. I began to concentrate on my breathing when I realized I... wasn’t. In my sleep, I just stopped breathing.  
It felt strange without the habit, but I fought the panic down.  
The mortician was humming softly under his breath. I recognized the tune almost instantly.  
...falling down, falling down, falling down...London bridges...  
I attempted to remain statuesque as his fingers ran down my left arm. I felt soap get pulled across it, and a thought occurred to me;  
Is it not a bit... weird for someone to bathe someone else while they’re unconscious?  
This thought in mind, I cracked my eyes open.  
“W...what are you doing?” I murmured groggily, sitting forwards in the bath. The Undertaker was behind me, out of view.  
When he responded, he seemed legitimately bewildered. “Bathing you...?”  
“Why?” I rubbed my eyes.  
“... as a simple act of basic care? Is this not done in your timeline?”  
I shook my head and laughed lightly, glancing down at my clothes-less body. “No, no. It’s a bit... unorthodox. But that’s okay.”  
My left leg had stitches all down the inside. Exciting.  
“So...”  
“You will be fine,” the mortician assured me, and his hands slid across my shoulders to my other arm as he moved around to face me.  
I sighed and allowed him to continue the strange ritual.  
I began to hum to myself. Subconsciously, I believe, the mortician joined in for a moment to finish the rhyme. “...my fair lady.”  
Then he blinked up at me. “You know that song?”  
Without skipping a beat, I replied, “of course. It’s a common nursery rhyme.”  
He stared at me incredulously. “These... songs... live on that long?”  
“It would seem so,” I shrugged. “You probably know of ring around the rosy, too.”  
The mortician seemed to take this like a slap to the face. He coughed to recompose himself, eyes still wide. “That is... very strange, that that one should continue. That song is actually frowned upon as of now.”  
I laughed sharply, lifting my arm and watching him run soap across my hand and through my fingers. “Children sing it on the streets in my time.”  
Shaking his head somewhat sadly, the mortician smiled to himself and refocused on his task. He had doffed his outer cloaks once more, and the sleeves of his white shirt below had been rolled up past his elbows. Four braids lined the left side of his head, arcing back to meet a haphazard ponytail which managed to contain most his hair, although some of his bangs fell forwards over his left eye.  
“Thanks for... y’know, saving me,” I sighed. “Although, I guess it isn’t even the first time,” I added before he could respond.  
Pausing his efforts, the Undertaker slicked his hair back with water on his hand and looked to me with a dismissive shrug. “Of course. It was my choice to bring you here... you are still learning, and you are still worth it. You will obtain more defensive skills as time goes on... actually,” he hummed, brows furrowing in thought as he stared past me. “That is not a bad idea. I ought to teach you some fighting skills of your own. The two reapers you have thus far encountered are, unfortunately, top of their field in regards to physical reaping, and will take an incredible amount of time and effort to match regarding skill. But, a few defensive moves could save your life in a passing moment with either of them should I ever be elsewhere,” he smiled, resuming his efforts.  
I nodded tiredly. Resisting the urge to curl up as he lifted my right leg slightly, I watched with feigned disinterest as his hands worked quickly and smoothly across my thigh and down beneath my knee. It tickled, quite suddenly, and I jerked my leg out with a shrill ‘eep!’, splashing water and soap everywhere— including him. The mortician ducked, but a wave still soaked his right arm. He glared at me in mock offence, obviously withholding laughter.  
“Rude!” He chided, sending a wave of water back.  
It caught me square in the face and I fell further into the bath, kicking until I managed to resurface spluttering. Laughing wildly, the Undertaker had to grip the edge of the tub for support. I growled and sent another arc of water at him, and he splashed me again. In an effort to dodge my next attack, he danced backwards, twirling out of the way.  
“Get back here!” I hissed, twisting to catch the back of his shirt and pulling on it hard. Apparently, it was harder than I meant, and he slid back, caught off balance. He hit the edge of the tub and tumbled in. I shrieked, drawing my knees up and turning completely red as he landed on his backside in the water, legs draped over the edge of the tub.  
“Oh my god!” I stammered. “I am so sorry!”  
He didn’t even seem to hear me; he was too busy laughing, arms wrapped around his midsection beneath the surface of the bath. The water was creeping up his shirt, causing it to stick to him in ways that were more flattering than I cared to acknowledge. I was far too embarrassed.  
“I’m so sorry!” I shrieked again, not sure what else to say. Forcing him into the bath really had not been my intention.  
“Are you?” He snickered. “I do wonder if there may had been some conflicting motivations regarding why you dragged me in here with you.”  
“Feel free to get out,” I squeaked, half-heartedly kicking at his hips. “I didn’t want this!”  
“You may change your mind about that,” he giggled, turning himself so that he was supporting himself on his arms on either side of me.  
“You’re right,” I grinned, twisting sideways and shoving his head beneath the water before he could react.  
He immediately reared back, of course, but it was too late; he was soaked, and he blinked water out of his eyes with a shocked expression, hands on either edge of the tub.  
Then he shot a glare my way with a crooked and dripping smile. “You are certainly a naughty one.”  
“Get off me!” I commanded, planting my feet against his hips and shoving him back. Due to the condition of one of my legs, I couldn’t kick hard enough to really do anything. Which was disappointing.  
“You sure you wouldn’t rather I get you off?” He teased, and I slid under the surface of the water so that only my eyes remained above in order to hide my blush. I made a vague bubbling noise at him and splashed him with more water. Leering down at me mischievously from beneath lowered lashes, he suddenly broke composure, shaking his head and chuckling. Lifting himself out of the bath, he retrieved a towel from across the room and held it up in front of his vision.  
“Come on out,” he instructed. “I promise not to peek.”  
“I call bullshit on that.”  
“I do not know what that means, but I’m guessing that you don’t believe me. Come on,” he urged. “The water will get cold. It’s always nicer to end it on a warmer note.”  
I glared at him through the towel, and slowly and resentfully lifted myself from the bath. I found that putting weight on my leg was not so bad, and I carefully stepped into the towel. I felt the mortician’s arms fall around me as the cloth wrapped around my skin.  
Handing me the towel ends, he stepped back.  
“Now I, too, must change,” he muttered, sounding somewhat bitter. He tugged his white shirt off over his head and glanced at me with a grin. “You can peek if you want. But I will tease you.”  
“You will tease me if I don’t, anyways,” I objected, but still found it too embarrassing to stare much beyond his shirt.  
He pulled another towel from the nearby closet and ran it over his hair before wrapping it around himself.  
“Follow,” he called, spinning on his heel and striding from the room.  
I padded hurriedly to catch up before the door closed, the floor cold against my feet.  
We rounded the corner to the bedroom, which was considerably warmer due to the three lamps that were burning around the space.  
Ushering me to sit on the bed, he sifted through his wardrobe with one hand, pulling two sets of robes from within. Tossing one towards me, he said,  
“I know you prefer to sleep in these anyway.”  
Nodding, I caught the soft fabric and pulled it on over my head, checking to ensure the Undertaker was busy before allowing my towel to drop.  
That complete, I flopped backwards onto the bed. I felt safe. I felt secure here, and refreshed. I was just hitting the exhaustion point where everything felt nice and muted, lying down a relief and still being awake kind of nice too.  
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye.  
Little bugger was watching me, and he smiled when our gazes met.  
He glowed warmly in the orange lamplight, wet hair hanging loosely in strings about his chest.  
Raising my eyebrow at him, I patted the bed next to me.  
“Coming?”  
He quirked his eyebrow as well, but said nothing. Finally turning, he blew out two of the lamps and approached the bed. Flipping myself around, I shifted so that I was fully on the mattress. He draped blankets across me and then climbed in beside me.  
“This is very domestic,” I murmured, letting one of my hands run over his shoulder as he turned to face me.  
“Mm?” He murmured.  
Simply nodding, I moved closer to him beneath the blankets, feeling my anxiety spark as I did so. Without a heart to beat faster, I could truly appreciate the amount of terror I felt when confronted with romantic situations.  
Hesitantly, I kept my hand on his shoulder and stretched my good leg out towards him until I touched him ever so slightly.  
He chuckled warmly and twisted away from me briefly, blowing out the final lamp before settling down and putting one of his hands on my waist.  
“Sleep,” he urged.  
“Goodnight,” I yawned.  
“...good...night.”


	14. Chapter 14

I awoke before the reaper did. Cracking my eyes open, we were in the same position as we had fallen asleep in. Gently, I eased his hand off of my hip and set it in front of him before sliding out of the blankets and crawling across his torso. The floor was cold. Paying it no mind, I shuffled out of the bedroom silently, leaving the door slightly ajar.   
There were three doors that I had yet to explore located in the main lobby of the shop. All of them lined the back wall, directly across from the entrance. I carefully cracked open the first one. It led to darkness, and a staircase that travelled downward. Guessing that I didn’t want to see the basement of a morgue, I closed it quickly and crossed to the second door. This one also revealed stairs, going up. I took one step forwards and the first stair groaned loudly beneath my weight. Hurriedly jumping off, I clicked the door shut silently and headed to the third door.   
This is what I had been looking for; a kitchen.  
It was strange, because it didn’t look anything like a kitchen should. Modern appliances, of course, were not around. There were cupboards on the walls, presumably holding wares and some food items, and what looked like a stove with wires curled at the top in place of burners. The fire from beneath would heat the metal. Across the narrow alcove, there was a small dark table with two wooden chairs, another chair hiding silently in the corner.   
I hunted through the little room. In the dim grey light of the rising sun, which was on the other side of the building, I managed to locate a closet half-hidden next to the stove. Pulling the door open, I found wood, and matches close by.   
Piling it into the stove as I would build any other campfire, I lit the oven and then lit the oil lamp that was on the table with the same match. I dropped it quickly as it burned down to my fingers. In my bare feet, I didn’t dare step on it to put it out, so I opened the cupboards to find a cup.   
There were few dishes, a few cups and bowls and plates; what I did find was a kettle and a- oddly enough- jar of water.   
Using the bottom of the metal teapot, I crushed the match on the floor before pouring some of the water from the jar into it.   
Placing it on the stove, I sat and waited.   
Staring at the open doorway, the stove to my left, I took a solemn and peaceful moment to reflect on all that had brought me here. The situation with my parents was kind of the kick-starter... that’s what led to me being in California, in a hotel. Not knowing how to tie a bowtie, well, that spoke for itself. I rubbed my throat subconsciously.   
The kettle began to hiss quietly, not yet reaching a boil. The room was warming rapidly. Standing, I searched through the cupboards until I found a jar labelled “tea”- thank god it was labelled, as I wasn’t about to take anything unlabelled from this shop.   
I found two grey mugs and placed them on the table, arranging a tea-ball in each. I sniffed the contents lightly. Jasmine-something. Floral.   
I heard the kettle begin to cry and pulled it off the burner, wrapping my sleeve around my hand as I tipped the water into each cup.   
That done, I placed the kettle on the floor next to the oven and padded out of the room to go wake the Undertaker.   
As I passed through the doorway of the kitchen, the temperature dropped immediately. I wrapped my arms about myself.   
“Cold?” A voice behind me rasped as a mysterious hand suddenly wrapped around my midsection.   
I screeched in fright and jolted forwards instinctively.   
The mortician chuckled, putting his mouth against my ear as his other arm latched around my throat.   
“Defence tactic number one... check around corners before proceeding.”  
Turning myself in his grip, I punched him in the chest. “Scaring me does NOT count as teachings!”  
“Yes it does,” he replied coolly, stepping forwards and pushing me back into the kitchen. “I imagine the more I do it the more you will check around corners.”  
Glowering at him, I jerked my head back towards the table.   
“I made tea, you prick.”   
“Thank you, Cold,” he chided, glancing at the oven with the fire still burning inside.   
The kitchen was warmer and I immediately felt it on my feet, the heat of the boards here compared to everywhere else.   
Seated together at the table, he fiddled with his teacup and glanced up at me.   
“What is on your ‘to-do’ list today, then?”   
“You,” I shrugged, taking an innocent sip of tea.   
Doubling over in a sudden fit of coughing as he choked on his tea, the mortician went red and clapped a hand over his mouth as he laughed.   
I snickered abashedly into my drink, trying to save face. Play it cool. Savvy. Gotta be smooth.   
I spilled tea down my chin and the Undertaker fell off the chair, laughing. I growled at him, kicking at him half-heartedly.   
“Stop! It’s not that funny!” I screeched, still giggling myself.   
Suddenly the Undertaker grabbed my ankle and yanked me off of my chair as well. Barely managing to avoid hitting the table, I sat myself on top of him instead. He narrowed his eyes at me and rolled so that I was on the bottom. I flinched as my shoulders hit the floor, his hair tickling my neck.   
Suddenly looming over me, he chuckled darkly when I braced my hands against his chest.   
“Defence tactic number two,” he murmured. “Don’t get caught off guard.”  
Pouting, I crossed my arms. “Are you ever going to teach me anything real, or are you just going to keep overpowering me because you like to?”  
Stunned, the mortician hesitated just long enough for me to plant my heels against his hips and throw him off me. Falling back against the side of his chair, he flipped a lock of hair over his shoulder and blinked at me as I stood.   
“Defence tactic number three,” I winked at him and dusted off my robes. “Flirt with people who are socially awkward. It makes them fluster.”  
“I am not —flustered!” He cried, attempting to push more hair out of his face and turning red.   
“A blushing pile of tangled hair and slept-in robes on the floor, not to mention breathing hard—“ the Undertaker self-consciously coughed. “I believe you are the definition of flustered,” I finished, resettling myself in my chair and picking up my teacup.   
Slowly, the mortician rose and slid himself back into his seat.   
“I can’t wait to teach you defensive tactic number four,” he hissed, glaring at me over his cup.   
I purposefully stared at my tea, avoiding his gaze. With a casual shrug, I stood and left my cup on the table.   
“I’m going to go change,” I yawned dramatically, and against everything that screamed at me not to, I pulled the robes off over my head before I even left the kitchen. 

The cold assaulted me immediately of course, but the low growl I heard from the kitchen behind me assured me that the casual striptease had served its purpose.   
Now, to the bedroom.   
I barely had let go of the robes when I was attacked from behind again. I shrieked and stumbled forwards, and the Undertaker slammed the door behind us, leaning against it and pulling me with him.   
“U-Undertaker! I’m not even decent!!—“ I gasped, pushing against his immuring grip.   
“I fail to see the issue,” he breathed against me, shifting his grip and digging his fingers into my hips.   
I elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Just because I tease does NOT mean you’re allowed to touch! How many times do we have to have this lecture?!”  
He hissed before laughing darkly and letting me go. “Get dressed then,” he growled, opening the door and sliding out of the room. “Before I decide that I’m willing to take the lecture.”  
“Bossy,” I muttered, rolling my eyes and grinning to myself.   
I heard him yelp behind me and whirled around. “What the hell just happened?”  
“I closed my hair in the door— SILENCE!” He shouted, and I heard him stalk away as I doubled over in laughter.   
After a few moments, I shook my head, still chuckling to myself.   
“Graceful.”

I dressed myself in my own robes and stockings, feeling at the copper buttons fondly. Pushing my hair back from my face, I briskly opened the door and bolted out into the shop, checking behind me as I passed through the frame. The mortician, surprisingly, wasn’t hiding creepily behind either corner.  
As I stared behind me, still sprinting, I failed to actually check in front of myself. I crashed right into the Undertaker, who had just turned around at the sound of the door ripping open. We bounced off each other. He stumbled back and I fell hard to the floor. Catching myself on my elbows, I blew hair out of my eyes and glanced up at him awkwardly.   
The mortician frowned at me in confusion, obviously fighting laughter. He gestured down at himself. “What on earth happened there, darling?” He stepped towards me, offering a helpful hand. “Just couldn’t resist a little more physicality?”  
“P-lease,” I scoffed, taking his hand and pulling myself to my feet. “You literally just repelled me.”  
He placed a hand on his chest in mock offence. “That was actually mean!” He chuckled, letting me go and drifting away through the dark shop.   
I laughed lightly as well, watching him carefully.  
“I might go back to the seamstress’s today,” he murmured quietly, staring at a bookshelf across the shop and tapping his teeth.   
“Why?”  
“You need sleeping clothes. While I don’t mind you in my conveniently loose robes,” he grinned, “I believe that in the long run it is more practical for you to have your own.”  
“My own ‘conveniently loose’ robes?” I inquired, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow. “Just what kind of sleeping wear is this?”  
Chuckling, the reaper glanced at me over his shoulder. “My, isn’t your mind in the gutter today,” he scolded.   
“Go on, run along to the bedroom and make yourself presentable,” I commanded, waving my hand towards the door and moving to the bookshelf. “I’ll be reading.”  
I pulled a book from its dusty slot on the faded wood.   
“Latin?” I asked, surprised when I flipped it open.   
“I’m impressed you recognize it.”  
“Why do you have books in Latin? Can you read it?” I questioned, turning through the pages carefully. It seemed hand-written, and there were small sketches of anatomy in the margins.   
“It is my native language,” he explained, stepping close to hover over my shoulder and read along. “You’re currently in the section about hands.”  
“Hands?” I snorted. “What’s so important about the anatomy of hands? Especially when they’re just... dead?”  
“Oh, hands are very interesting!” He proclaimed dramatically, swirling around in front of me. Eyeing me mischievously for a moment, he hesitated.   
“Say you find a body,” he began, reaching out and taking my left wrist. I suddenly felt very small with him facing me. “And the body is holding something, like a note. Knowing the anatomy of hand muscles,” he continued, lifting my hand palm-up and tapping his nail upon it. “Especially in death, can tell you the difference between if the person died while holding the object willingly, or,” he curled his fingers over mine, pressing my hand closed into a tight fist. “If that object was forced into their grip post-mortem. This applies further down, as well,” he giggled, maintaining his grip. “If the hand is strangely stiff and not matched to the object correctly, you can conclude that the object was placed there several hours after death, indicating a cover-up. If the opposite is true, then the item would have had to have been placed there before rigour-mortis set in. This can establish whether the incident was planned or not, if foul play is involved,” he concluded, releasing my fingers and tapping my nose.   
I with drew my hand. “So what, you play detective now?”  
The mortician chuckled and stepped back, eyes glinting. “I help the Earl with his cases occasionally. I’m a reaper— do you expect me not to be curious about such things?”  
“Of course not. What else have you got in this book?” I asked, pulling it back up to my chest and flipping through it more observantly now.   
“All aspects of the human body, I believe. A general overview of muscle and bone.”  
“Including the Hyoid bone?” I chuckled to myself. “I only learned about that one— well, a few months ago.”  
“It’s in there,” he nodded. “If I can cut it open, it’s in there.”  
I shuddered. “You are such a little beam of sunshine sometimes.”  
Smiling, he shrugged helplessly and walked away. “I try.”  
I closed the book slowly, keeping the page with my thumb while gazing at the spine. “There’s no author.”  
“Every book has an author,” he replied, glancing back over his shoulder at me as his hand hovered on the doorknob to the bedroom.  
“Then who’s this by?”  
Tipping an invisible hat, he turned, bowed low, and winked. “Yours truly.”  
“Oh,” I blinked in surprise. “You... make these things? Why?”  
“What else am I supposed to do with a few dead hookers and a lot of free time?”  
I choked on my own tongue and glared at him.   
“Sorry,” he amended, hands poised in the air. “Women of the night.”  
“Subtle beam of sunshine, at that,” I rolled my eyes and opened the book again, peering at the blue-black ink with newfound appreciation.   
“Do you even remember whose hands you were drawing?”  
But the Undertaker had disappeared behind the door.


	15. Chapter 15

“Would you relax?” The mortician chided, lifting my white-knuckled grip from his arm lightly before resettling it.  
“Sorry,” I blushed, focusing on my feet and glancing shyly around me. “It’s strange.”  
“Are you nervous because you feel like you look out of place?” The Undertaker asked gently.  
I pondered this thought for a minute. “I guess so. And... to be led around by someone is also strange. In trying to force myself to adapt to the Victorian mentality, I feel vulnerable and weak outside when I’m with you.”  
“Ah,” he nodded serenely, continuing on in his slow and relaxed pace. “You will learn.”  
I glanced around uneasily at the public. The streets were empty compared to California, but the occasional couples and individuals we walked past gave me a new bout of anxiety each time. I watched the women glittering in the bright morning sun; how they hung on the arms of their partner. Every time I saw somebody, I would shift my grip slightly, trying to mirror them somehow. Then it was the walking. I ensured I walked in an elegant line, as precise and poised as I could.  
The mortician was dressed up to the full, with sash and hat in place, as was I. My hair was pushed back, and my hand was placed neatly in the crook of the Undertaker’s arm as I walked beside him.  
“Do you usually have company?”  
“No, but sometimes I do have Grelle. He’s being so frustrating,” he growled under his breath. “But at certain points in the century, he’s tolerable.”  
“He’s pretty flirty,” I chuckled, leaning into the mortician’s shoulder. “I see why you like him.”  
“Oi!”  
I snickered and pulled away, before noticing a couple walking the opposite direction of us approaching. The girl was in a flouncy blue dress, the man in brown slacks and suspenders with a flat cap. I glanced at her hand and adjusted my fingers again.  
The Undertaker sighed and planted his heel, suddenly spinning me and grabbing my waist. I shrieked out of surprise and jumped back, but he dragged me along. Automatically I spun with him.  
“Goddammit!” I shouted. “What the hell, man?”  
He chuckled and took two steps back, out onto the middle of the dusty cobblestone street. I had no choice but to follow.  
“I know you know how to do this,” he murmured.  
“How?” I snapped, spinning with him again.  
“Those moments back in your apartment building,” he murmured. “You didn’t fall.”  
“I did, I tripped. You caught me,” I snapped, falling into box step rhythm.  
“I could tell from the way you held yourself, even though you were resistant,” he laughed. “When I pulled you into position, you followed instantly. Look where your left hand is.”  
I glared at my grip, which had indeed fallen perfectly against his shoulder.  
“Shut up,” I growled, turning red as we fell into the foxtrot.  
He spun us again to avoid a lamppost, and we danced back out onto the street. As we turned again, I noticed the couple standing on the walkway, watching with easy smiles. I blushed and turned away, focusing instead on the Undertaker.  
He witnessed my discomfort and giggled. “We have more audience than just that.”  
“Oh my god,” I hissed, burying my face against his chest and concentrating on my steps.  
As I remembered each step, my movements grew longer and smoother and the mortician kept up well. After a few short rounds, we were in full swing, and he tapped the back of my right hand.  
Immediately responding, I mirrored his triple step for a moment before falling back into foxtrot.  
“Are you done?” I hissed, gazing apprehensively at the small crowd that had gathered to watch as we drew back from each other for a rock step.  
“Just wait,” the Undertaker murmured. “You have yet to see one of the small glories of the Victorian era.”  
I sighed and continued following him. Just as I was about to have a thought about how strange it was to dance in silence, the small crowd of about twenty people now began to clap to our rhythm. It was only a few of the boys, but the sound was a quick adrenaline boost and I grinned. “What’s happening?”  
“Just wait,” the mortician giggled, his excitement clear in his glowing grin.  
I did. As we continued to dance, other couples trickled onto the road to join us. A few did simple box step, others went into full tango. We spun around each other as single entities, everyone laughing and grinning. A small group of women began to sing a small chorus of a tune I didn’t recognize, adding harmony to the clapping. It felt suddenly magical, Disney-esque in the glittery sunlit road. I laughed out loud and followed another spin of the mortician’s.  
“You know how to social dance?” He asked, eyeing the people around us from beneath his fringe.  
“Of course,” I snorted.  
“Excellent,” he murmured, teasingly threateningly. In one more spin, he suddenly deposited me in the grip of another fellow and stole away his girl.  
“What the—“  
My new partner, a young lad with chestnut hair and green eyes, chuckled and turned us to the outside before switching again.  
Slowly the couples formed a circle, and a couple of the single women were stolen from their small singing group by some of the braver young men who had been clapping. Everyone’s footsteps echoed through the street at once. We all spun and danced and glided, and I was passed from partner to partner and smiled at and passed again.  
Eventually I made it back to the Undertaker and we tango’d right out of the circle. Standing to the side of the street, we both laughed as we watched the dance procession continue without us.  
After a moment, the Undertaker’s hand rested on the small of my back and pulled me with him as he started walking again. I fell into line with him, still chuckling as I pressed a hand over my blush.  
“That was humiliating,” I giggled.  
“Now nothing can be more embarrassing than that,” he agreed, also giggling. “So you can stop being so worried about how you look.”  
Astonished, I quickly checked that no one was watching before punching his shoulder.  
“Ow! Hey!” He laughed, flinching away. “I was helping!”  
“You ass—set to my life, I love you,” I exclaimed, leaning heavily on his arm as a new passerby eyed me warily at my profanity.  
The reaper burst out laughing. “Did you just—“  
“Don’t let it get to your head,” I growled under my breath. “How much longer to the tailor’s?”

“Come in, come in!” She chattered.  
“I don’t believe you’ve been formally introduced,” the Undertaker said as we stepped inside the shop. “Nina, this is London, my shop assistant. London, Nina.”  
I nodded and bowed awkwardly as Nina curtseyed. “Pleasure.”  
“Likewise,” I murmured shyly.  
The shop’s bottom floor was two large rooms separated by a wall-sized paper curtain. I could see the sleek silhouette of a mannequin shadowed in the curtain from lamplight behind it. The room we were currently in was lit by two lamps, and various shreds of fabrics were scattered everywhere. Larger sections were draped over randomly-placed chairs and mirrors, and in the right corner was a massive desk with an intimidating looking sewing machine. I blinked at the monstrous thing. It was old, and pedal-driven.  
“You like it? It’s the newest model,” Nina bubbled, following my gaze. Then she clapped loudly. “Now! London and Undertaker! What can I help with today?”  
“Sleepwear,” the Undertaker said quickly. “Real sleepwear,” he corrected as she opened her mouth.  
Pausing with her mouth still open, Nina glanced at me and then lifted an eyebrow at the mortician. “Both?”  
He sighed and swept his hat off of his head, abandoning it on a pile of cloth on a chair. “Nina, as long as they get something to actually sleep in, I could not care less what else you do with them.”  
“That’s a lot of freedom—“ I warned, but Nina already had me in her grip, dragging me behind the paper curtain.  
“Brilliant!! Now let me see,” she bubbled. “Sit somewhere, Undertaker.”  
“I—alright,” he sighed, and I heard the distant clink of his ring sliding off of the door handle defeatedly.  
I chuckled and pulled off my shoes, standing up on the stool that she kicked towards me and holding up my arms. Allowing Nina to undress me was strange, but I knew it would be faster than undressing myself.  
I heard fabric shift in the other room and remembered the silhouette of the mannequin. It took all of my mental effort to not swear.  
Instead, I stood still as Nina remeasured everything.  
“Don’t you already have my measurements?” I asked.  
“I see so many people dear, I don’t keep measurements. My shop would be full of papers. It takes me so little time. But you might as well stay, that way I can make everything... perfect,” she winked.  
After half an hour of her hands and tapes around me, she reached into a closet and pulled out a pile of fabric.  
I was still standing on the stool when she shoved the paper curtain aside.  
“Nina!” I shouted.  
“Sorry!” She snickered, kicking it back into place with her heel.  
I heard the squeak and groan as the sewing machine whirred to life.  
Several times she came back through to deck me out in a half-made sleeping gown, making folds and pinning things and adding buttons with a scowl of concentration.  
After an hour of standing, the muscles in my legs began to ache. Just when I thought I was going to have to sit down, Nina burst in for the last time, throwing the gown over my head.  
“It has two styles,” she chuckled, moving around to stand behind me.  
“One like this.” The gown was loose, something like my real robes except that it was open in a sloping collar at the throat, and the fabric was dark blue silk. There were slits from my hips down to ensure my legs could move as necessary, as the gown draped all the way down to my ankles.  
“Thank you! It’s lovely,” I exclaimed, holding up my arms. No tightness in the shoulders, and the sleeves were an inch past my wrist.  
“We’re not done,” she giggled, then quietly whispered in my ear. “You’ll have to show him this one.”  
Before I could respond, she yanked sharply on a cinch cord that was at my back. The silk gown tightened around me, suddenly sitting flush against my flesh, basically, well... everywhere.  
Blushing and chuckling nervously, I glanced down at myself as she tied the string in place. Nothing was uncomfortably tight, but everything was directly against my skin in very flattering ways. My waist was narrowed slightly further than it was already, and the sleeves were still comfortable. It was tight around my hips as well, acting as a long pencil skirt when I stood with my legs together. The slits down the side allowed free range movement, thought.  
“Brilliant,” I chuckled, and she laughed and untied to the string.  
After redressing me and boxing up the sleeping gown, Nina accepted a small leather bag from the mortician. When he handed it to her, no money clinked inside.  
Back out in the street in the now early afternoon sun, I glanced at him questioningly.  
“Herbs,” he murmured in explanation, planting his hat elegantly on top of his silver hair once again. “She likes to cook as well.”  
“Alright,” I murmured, grinning to myself.  
The Undertaker took the small box from me and held it against his hip as we walked, holding his arm out for me.  
“I can carry it,” I argued  
“Not while I’m here,” he replied simply. “When we walk together, as you are in the feminine position, I will be carrying our items and you will be doing as I say.”  
I blinked in immediate offence, before relaxing and remembering that the mortician was not being rude; but that was just simply how things were done in this time period.  
“A-alright,” I murmured shyly, sliding my fingers into the crook of his elbow and matching pace with him.  
“What else do people do when out on walks with each other in this time period?”  
The mortician giggled sharply. “You want to see?”  
“Uh, I don’t know, do I?”  
“It’s better in the rain, so we will wait.”  
“Um... alright,” I murmured, eyeing him warily and confused as to what could possibly be better in the rain. “When is it supposed to rain next?”  
The Undertaker glanced at me. “You expect me to know?”  
I blinked. “Oh... yeah. Sorry. No.”  
He chuckled warmly. “You might be in luck,” he amended, tilting his head to the sky. “See those clouds? We’ll likely get rain this evening.”

Back at the shop, I stole the package away from the reaper and dropped it on the bed. The mortician deposited his hat on his desk and strolled casually to the left of the three doors.  
“I’ve got a coffin to make,” he informed me.  
“Is that a crack at Nina?”  
He laughed and shook his head. “A merchant’s wife has been sick a while... she is to pass soon, and I know how tall she is. I’m going to get a head-start.”  
I nodded and hummed sadly. “Poor lady.”  
He shrugged. “Death comes to us all,” he murmured, before disappearing down the stairs.  
“Sort of,” I muttered to myself before turning to the bookshelf. 

I sat and read through anatomy books for several hours. It was interesting to note how much they knew at the time versus my basic medical knowledge. Then I found a Latin story book, the handwritten font something out of a tale of Arthur and Excalibur. I entertained myself with pictures, some of which I recognized as the Undertaker’s penmanship and some not.  
Then I flipped open a book about tales Grimm. I found Rapunzel, a troll on a bridge... eventually I reached Cinderella. Thoughts of my parents began to creep in as I read further on.  
A few moments later, I snapped the book shut and morosely drifted over to the window. My breath fogged on the glass, and I could feel tears burning my eyes. Luckily, the grey sky was already crying for me.  
Then I remembered.  
Wiping at my eyes, I darted to the basement door and threw it open. Jumping down the stairs, I confronted a woodshaving-covered mortician. Pieces of a casket in the making laid around him.  
He blinked at me, lifting an inquisitive eyebrow.  
I clapped my hands and giggled. “It’s raining.”

He changed his outer robes and pulled a large black umbrella from the closet in the bedroom, meeting me at the door with another jacket that the tailor had provided. I pulled it on and smiled at him. Reaching forwards, he clicked the buttons closed for me and kicked open the door. A fresh cold blast of air greeted us.  
The street was empty when we stepped out into the water.  
The ripples spread out elegantly from where we stepped, and I curled into him as he opened the umbrella to shield us from the drizzle. My faint breath steamed in the cold, and I took in a huge, fresh inhale.  
“Are you alright?” The mortician asked, pushing his hair back from his eyes and glancing at me.  
I sighed. “Suspicious?”  
He chuckled. “You’re bad at hiding emotions.”  
“I was thinking about my parents.”  
He blinked, startled. “Oh?”  
“They left when I was fifteen,” I murmured. “I lived with my aunt in LA until I ran away at sixteen.”  
“I’m... sorry,” he murmured.  
I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter any more. I don’t know why I even thought of them.”  
We walked in silence for a few moments. I appreciated the whispers of the falling rain, the cool scent of petrichor permeating the air around us. The dark silence was comforting.  
After a few blocks of walking, our steps matching, I breached the quiet.  
“So what is this thing that people do on walks that is better in the rain?” I grinned, swinging my momentum into him teasingly.  
“We’re almost there,” he grinned back. “Patience.”  
Rounding a corner, we approached a green space. A park, a public rest area. It was a circular space of grass, about as big as a hotel lobby. In the centre, a large elm sprouted and wound up from the ground, taller than every average building in the city of London.  
“Ready for a climb?” He asked, stepping onto the grass.  
I stared up at the massive tree. “Hell yes.”  
Closing the umbrella and leaning it on the tree, he turned to face me and beckoned me. “Come on, I’ll give you a boost to the first few branches since they’re high.”  
I sprinted forwards, allowing the toes of my shoes to dig into the bark, which was soft with rain. As I lifted myself, I stretched out my arms and locked my fingers over the first branch. Flipping up, I swung my leg over it and levered myself onto the branch, smiling down at the Undertaker as my hair started taking on water.  
He stared at me for a moment.  
“No thanks,” I chirped, before jumping to the next branch.  
He laughed and I heard him begin to follow.  
Granted, the large branches were slippery in the rain, but I dug my fingers into the tree as much as possible and climbed. I climbed and climbed, feeling adrenal elation as I ascended higher and higher above the ground.  
I climbed until I could climb no more, and shifted out onto a small cluster of branches. The mortician followed. Hidden partially from the rain by the foliage of the elm above us, we stared out at the foggy horizon, over the buildings. Everything was grey, but it was a clean and refreshing grey, broken only by the occasional smoke line from the chimney of a house.  
“It’s peaceful up here,” I murmured, fog drifting from my mouth.  
“Indeed,” The reaper agreed. His breath was as cold as the atmosphere.  
I leaned my head on his shoulder. He was damp from the misty rainwater.  
Then suddenly he twisted on the branch so he was straddling it facing me, and he put both of his arms around my shoulders, pulling me to him as he leaned back against the trunk of the elm. With no fear of falling off balance, I laid against him and watched the dark leaves as water dripped off of them in individual crystalline drops.  
I turned to the mortician and scowled. “Are you ever going to tell me?”  
He giggled, voice vibrating in his chest. “No. I’m going to show you,” he murmured, carefully placing one hand along my cheek before leaning down. His mouth was warm, soft, and slightly slick with rainwater. The gentle perfume of the cedar wood he had been working with prior to the walk drifted up through the rain. Leaning into him, I was drawn in by how warm he was— still a medical mystery. I gripped his shoulder and draped my arm over the other, shifting closer as his fingers wound into my hair.  
We broke apart for a moment, and I glanced at him, close enough to see the individual droplets of water on the edges of his coat.  
We kissed again, his hair progressively dampening as the rain soaked in.  
Breaking away, he grinned down at me, slicking his bangs back. “Better in the rain, yes?”  
“Boy,” I gasped, glancing down at the ground far below. “Have I got a surprise for you later.”


	16. Chapter 16

“I’m going to change,” I murmured, pulling away from the Undertaker with a shy grin and heading into the bedroom. I shed my robes and stockings, stripping completely and standing in the air for a moment. I felt fresh and happy.  
Blushing at the thought of it, I grabbed the box from the tailor and silently cracked it open. Kicking the empty box beneath the bed, I pulled the light silk robes over my head and let them flow down around me.   
I stepped out and shut the door silently behind me, observing from the shadows for a moment as the Undertaker peeled his own soaked robes off himself. His white shirt was sticking to him and he pulled that off as well, abandoning the pile of water on the floor by the desk. Moving around the table, he reached into a drawer and retrieved a ribbon, pulling his hair back and tying it in a high ponytail.   
Then he noticed me.   
“Peeping Tom,” he scolded, glancing down at his shirtless self.   
“Don’t mind if I do,” I replied, folding my arms and leaning back on the door, fighting a grin.   
“That looks nice,” he murmured slowly, gesturing to my outfit.   
“Thanks!” I chirped, holding my arms out and stepping towards him. “I do need your help with something, however.”  
He quirked a suspicious eyebrow. “Oh?”  
I spun on my heel. “Well, I can’t tie the drawstring.”  
“Why is there a drawstring?”  
“She said it was because morgues are cold. It’s to maximize warmth.”  
“Oh, clever woman,” he laughed, suspicion gone.   
He stepped forwards and toyed with something at the back.   
“So I guess I pull on this one..?”  
“Pull really hard,” I recommended. “She said you won’t break it.”  
“Yes, well, that woman doesn’t seem to understand that reapers can rip things easier than humans.”  
I felt the drawstring move, and all of the elegant blue silk tightened over me at once. He tied it, and then I stepped away. When I walked, the slits revealed the sides of my hips just enough to be scandalous.   
I heard him suck in a breath as I spun to face him. Everything was tight and form-fitting across my lean chest, waist, hips, legs, everything. I felt rather... well, badass. Sexy.   
“My my,” he purred, stepping up to me and running his fingers teasingly down the side of my ribcage. “How sleek.”  
“She did well,” I nodded innocently, before glancing down at myself. “Although I’ve never worn anything so dressy before. What do you think of the colour?”  
“I think I’d need to look a little longer to respond to that,” he chuckled quietly, sharp eyes sizing me up above a mischievous grin.   
“Feel free,” I sighed dramatically, stepping back and sauntering away from him. “Thanks for helping me.”  
“Any time,” he giggled after a moment. “Go to the loft. I’ll start a fire, it will be warm and soft.”  
I nodded, figuring he meant the upstairs.   
The stairway was cold, but as I ascended the air gradually warmed. In the ‘loft’ there were a couple shelves up on the wall, containing jars of random liquids and a cookie jar. The far half of the entire room was covered in an amalgamation of cushions and blankets and rugs and anything soft, really. To my right upon entering, there sat a small black metal box with a pipe attached that led out the roof.   
The rickety floors creaked as I walked across them, but they were much warmer against the soles of my feet than the concrete of the first floor.  
Eventually, I relaxed into the cushions and the Undertaker made his way to join me, setting up a fire in the little black box that began to heat the room up nicely. A single window on the far wall allowed us to see the darkening sky. A small thunderstorm had begun, the rain hitting the window with sharp velocity. Lanterns were lit around the room, and it occurred to me that I didn’t need to worry about a blackout even if lightning came close.  
“Aren’t you looking sultry,” he chuckled warmly, approaching my undeniably sexy figure laid out across the cushions. I lifted one leg teasingly, bending it at the knee and bringing it through the teasing cut in the sleepwear. The front of the gown draped perfectly across my hips.   
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I replied, leaning my cheek on my hand.   
Still bedecked in loose black pants, he had found another white button-up and put it over his shoulders for the sake of dignity, leaving the front draping open.   
He stood and posed dramatically, arms splayed out as he looked down at himself. “I am but a poor boy, dressed in peasants clothes next to your royalty,” he purred, bowing low with a mischievous grin.   
I put a finger on my lips in contemplation. “Mmm... you’re right, I’m better,” I sighed wistfully, before breaking and bursting into laughter.   
“Laughing at me now?” He whispered, pressing a hand over his chest in mock offence. “How dare you.”  
“Like this,” I chuckled, still laughing.   
“Better shut your mouth, darling, unless you want something in it,” he growled.   
The brazenness of his comment stunned me to open-mouthed silence, my cheeks a dark scarlet red.   
Dropping onto the cushions in front of my on his knees, he chuckled and gestured towards my open jaw.   
“Want me to find a use for that?”  
Snapping my mouth shut, I glared defiantly at him and folded my arms. “You’d better be nice to me,” I warned. “You still have to ask permission.”  
He dropped his smile, staring at me intimidatingly from beneath his white lashes. “No I don’t.”   
I paused, grin faltering. Then I punched him in the chest, which he blocked with his shoulder.   
“You ass! Did you just try to do what you did back at the hotel?!”  
He giggled madly. “You look funny when you’re scared.”  
“Rude!” I yelped, still breathing as I descended from the sudden jolt of adrenaline.   
“So is your outfit, darling,” he murmured, slipping a startlingly chilled hand between the sections of my nightgown and running his frigid fingers over my hip.   
“How dare you blame someone’s outfit for your lack of self-control!” I squeaked, attempting and somewhat failing to maintain composure.   
I could feel that his hands were tremoring   
As his fingertips glided across my skin. He drew a breath; something he only did when he was nervous. I grinned.   
Despite this, his demeanour was confident.   
“I’ll do what I like,” he growled in response.   
I gasped and laughed, unsure what else to even say in response to the euphemism. “Is-is that a threat or a promise?” I simpered, planting my hands on his shoulders and pushing away. His grip instinctively tightened on my hip, and he sighed in mock frustration.  
In an instant I was pinned to the pillows. I reared back, ready to punch him again, but he covered my hand with his and laughed darkly.   
“Careful now,” he murmured, mouth close to mine. “We wouldn’t want somebody to get hurt.”  
I narrowed my eyes before smirking. “Don’t we?”  
He faltered, eyes widening and cheeks darkening, and I had a moment of victorious inner joy. “Cat got your tongue?”  
He narrowed his gaze at me in turn. “Why don’t you come see for yourself?”   
“Ooh, clever, I like it,” I applauded him, reaching up with my free hand to grab his open collar edges and pull him down for a kiss.  
“There’s more where that came from,” he murmured, pulling back.   
“Don’t get too carried away in your vanity,” I teased. “Calling yourself clever.”  
He shrugged innocently, still smirking down at me. “I exist as a simple amalgamation of tragic nuances and corny pick-up lines. Nothing too clever about that.”  
I paused. “You actually call them pick-up lines in this generation?”  
He snorted. “What else would we call them? Drop-down circles?”  
I giggled. “Parabolas.”  
He shook his head in despair and leaned down again, black cotton rubbing against blue silk. “You never fail to amaze me.”  
“Well,” I began, waving a defensive hand. “I don’t know! I would have thought something a little more... professional! Victorian! Like, a ‘poem of courtship’ or someth—“  
He cut off my complaints with his tongue, but then he himself had to break off again into giggles. “A poem of courtship?” He asked incredulously.   
My cheeks darkened and I swatted his shoulder. “Like I said! I don’t know!”  
“Aye! Goodness, you’re a violent one,” he chided, gripping my hands and lifting me up, adjusting so that I straddled his lap.   
“And you’re a pretty one,” I cooed, sticking my tongue out and just catching the edge of his nose with it. He jerked back and I giggled, elated from the coziness and comfort of it all.   
“Rude,” he murmured, catching my hands and gently running his thumbs across my palms. “Now...” he continued, fingers sliding beneath the cuffs of my blue satin sleeves and rubbing at the fabric.   
His glowing gaze met mine again. “What are we going to do about this dress?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy lookie here an update baby!~  
> It’s a long one too  
> Plot develops  
> Y’know  
> Things move again  
> For anyone following along with my other fan fictions, a few things will click into place  
> Ooo we’re getting closerrrrr oooo I’m so excited. Anyways. Enjoy, I know it’s been a long time since I showed this fic some love.

I walked into the kitchen a little unsteadily and winced when I sat down.  
The mortician, hair in a ponytail, watched me with some curiosity, before bursting into laughter.  
“Shut up!” I snapped, wrapping my arms around my midsection and blushing furiously. “It’s a real thing! It’s a real problem!”  
This only amused him further and he dropped his hold on the pan of food currently cooking, falling to the floor as he gasped for air and continued to rock back and forth in laughter.  
“Oh my godddddd~” I thumped my head back against the wall in frustration. “It’s not funny, damn you! It hurts!”  
“I-I-I’ll take it as—aahahaaa—as a compliment!!” He giggled madly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.  
I growled and glared at him, which, inevitably, made him laugh harder.  
I waited a solid minute for him to come back down, and fixated another glare on him as he slowly pushed himself onto his knees, and then to his feet. Still snickering, he turned his back on me and pushed the food on the plate around.  
“What are you making?” I asked, leaning to the side and wincing again. It really did hurt. So unfair that he walked away unscathed.  
“Hash,” he replied. “Shredded potatoes. Do you still have that?”  
I nodded even though he couldn’t see. “Yeah, we call it hash-browns though I think... at least in California. It’s kind of interchangeable.”  
A few minutes later, he was still snickering, so I kicked his backside with a fair amount of force. With a yelp he spun to face me, pulling his ponytail over his shoulder and leaning back as he folded his arms. “Well that was rude,” he scolded.  
“It’s your fault I’m in pain,” I argued. “You deserve a little too.”  
He smirked. “Just because you’re too weak to take on a reaper in bed doesn’t mean you get to abuse him the next morning.”  
I scoffed at him. “Rude! You know I let you win!”  
“Right...” he rolled his eyes and grinned. “You let me win.”

After breakfast, we laid around uselessly for a little while longer before he started to work on a new coffin. I decided to go for another walk; not everyone had the chance to explore old London, and I planned to fully utilize the opportunity presented to me.  
The ground was still damp from yesterday’s rain when I started, and the sun was pale. It was cold enough that dew still clung to windowpanes of houses and shops that I walked past. There was Big Ben, the massive clock building, and I took an hour or so to walk around it and talk to people idly. The air was still shockingly rural rather than polluted with city life, and I breathed happily despite not needing to.  
I passed several groups of street urchins and kids, gathered at light-posts and under awnings of shops and huddled in alleyways. They all blinked up at me with dirtied faces, but many seemed remarkably jovial despite being ridiculously skinny.  
Orphans. I realized that they were not just homeless; they were all orphans, by disease or famine or other causes. It broke my heart a little, and I made a point of waving and smiling at each child, even though I had nothing to give. The Undertaker had given me a few coins, but I didn’t know exactly how to use them.  
It had been a few hours before I began to think about returning to the shop, and the sun had passed noon and was heading into 3 o’clock.  
I just rounded a new corner when I saw another street rat, hanging out at what seemed to be an abandoned mail post. The sun was still up, and shops around were still open; what struck me was that the child was alone. They looked about ten, very very young. Glancing at me, their eyes swept up and down me with a youthful but hardened gaze, and then they simply looked away, sitting down on the edge of the walkway and dragging a stick across the wet dust of the cool cobblestones. They didn’t beg, and they didn’t run away.  
Suspiciously, I approached the kid. I was nervous about some sort of ambush, but I was reassured by the presence of a bakery open just a few buildings down.  
“Hey there,” I called, and then immediately corrected myself. “I mean, hello, there.”  
The child glanced up at me, cheek mushed against their hand dejectedly. The stick paused.  
“Hello,” they replied, voice high and equally suspicious of me.  
I looked around, then back down at the child, who was now analyzing me. Maybe looking to see if I was worth attacking.  
“Hey, do you know how to count money?” I asked.  
The youngster paused and clasped their hands together. “No’ well. I can tell a little,  
But no’ well. You talk funny.”  
“I’m American,” I nodded. “Are you alone?”  
The kid tensed up, terror obvious in their eyes. “Why?”  
“Do you want some bread?” I quickly amended. “You seem like you’re alone. You don’t have a gang, do you?”  
The child shook their head sadly after a moment. “I don’t like em.”  
“That’s alright,” I smiled, crouching so I was on their level, pulling one of the smaller coins out of my pocket. “Is this enough for bread, do you think?”  
“T’be honest, I don’t know,” the kid shrugged helplessly. “But from what I’ve seen, it’s usually two of those exact coins.”  
“Then have two,” I murmured, glancing around as I pressed the two coins into the child’s hand.  
Their eyes widened hopefully. “Really?”  
“I’d have to be a real dick to give you the coins and take them back, wouldn’t I?” I chuckled. “That building there is a bakery, k?” I pointed. “Get yourself whatever that affords you, it’s up to you now.”  
“Thank you,” the child murmured, suddenly sounding sad.  
I nodded. “Sure. What’s your name?”  
The kid blinked at me again, playing idly with the damp stick in their hands and tucking the coins further into their grip. “Uh... Langdon.”  
“Hm,” I nodded again and smiled. “That’s really close to mine. Mine’s actually London,” I chuckled, lifting my hands. “Just like this place. Anyways, Langdon, I’ve got to go now, so I’m going to leave. Good luck, okay? Take care of yourself.”  
Langdon nodded slowly, still eyeing me suspiciously.  
I tried not to let my heart break too much as I walked away.  
I began to ponder my own situation. I was essentially an orphan now, wasn’t I?  
Walking on through the town, I wondered what my parents were doing right now. Would they even care that I was... dead?  
Would I have ever patched things up if I had stayed around?  
Maybe I should have anyways.  
Now I’d probably lost my chance. I was probably never going to see them again, and I wasted so much time— but did I? The fight wasn’t my fault, after all. They were still being—  
I turned another corner and wiped my eyes, still lost in the memory of my parents.  
I bumped into someone.  
I immediately began apologizing, but my words died in my mouth when I glanced up at who it was.  
The red reaper grinned at me.  
“Oopsie,” he whispered, rubbing his hands together.  
I froze. Grelle didn’t have his chainsaw.  
“Again? Fuck—where’s your scythe?” I demanded, ready to run should he conjure it.  
In a three-foot-apart standoff, Grelle stuck his tongue out at me in a huff before crossing his arms and pouting.  
“Ronnie’s keeping it safe for me. I didn’t feel like toting it around on my day off. Ugh~” he sighed dramatically. “I guess I have to do this the hard way.”  
“In fact,” I bartered, holding up my hands affably. “You don’t have to do this at all. You could just walk away, pretend you never saw me— I’m sure you’ll get me sooner or later anyway—“  
“I’d rather it be sooner,” he hissed. “So don’t try that on me.”  
I took off running before he could catch me off guard. I heard his footsteps pick up behind me.  
“You think you’re faster?” Grelle giggled maliciously, voice closer than I cared to admit. Fingers brushing my shoulder, he snarled and quickened himself. A boost of adrenaline surged through me as I felt him graze me, and I sprinted headlong into the streets. He chased me, and there was a moment, a single moment where my left foot hit the ground at a slight angle, and his fingers curled into my collar, and the world stopped. I was dead, I was already dead, and in that single moment, I knew it. He had me.  
I should have followed defence tactic number one.  
We tumbled to the cobblestones. I fell hard, tripping over a rock or something, and he flipped over me, having been tailing too close to stop in time. Grelle shifted quickly to straddle my waist from behind, wrapping his slender yet impossibly strong arm around my neck before getting to his feet.  
I thrashed in his grip, but the red reaper didn’t even seem to notice, hauling me backwards. Just as I was about to scream, he slapped his other hand across my mouth.  
“None of that,” he scolded. “The mortician left me in quite a state last time, and I’m not in the mood to be shredded again.”  
I laughed condescendingly into his hand, kicking his shin as hard as I could with my heel while clinging to his arm so I wouldn’t hang myself on it.  
“Mffmfmf!”  
“Wot?” He demanded sharply, before chiming laughter. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”  
I bit his hand as hard as I could and he jerked it back.  
“You little brat!” He hissed. “That’s it! You’re mine!”  
He dragged me down a side street and tossed me against a building. I dropped backwards, bouncing off the brickwork and falling at his feet. The reaper kicked me in the spine, shoving me forwards into the wall at an uncomfortable angle. I yelped and slid down, the jagged stones tearing the skin of my palms and scraping across my right cheek.  
Once I was on the ground, pressed awkwardly between the wall and the cobblestones, Grelle dug his boot into my back until I couldn’t take the cutting pressure from the heel anymore, and I screamed. Chuckling, he lightened his step just a little, continuing to pin me. I could smell the scent of wet dirt and stones, the ground against me cold and slick from the previous day’s rain.  
“You’re from the future, right?” Grelle asked, suddenly sounding intrigued.  
I hesitated.  
“Tell me!” He snapped, leaning into me again.  
I squeezed my eyes shut as his boot cut into my spine. “Yes! Fucking hell! Stop!”  
The pressure was relieved slightly. “Good child,” he purred. “Now tell me. Does your time... know... of Jack the Ripper?”  
“Uh... yes,” I admitted, hesitant based on the reaper’s tone. What would be the best? I decided in this case, the truth would likely get me farther. “That dude who murdered prostitutes in White Chapel, right? That’s what you mean? Oh god, am I in that time?!?—“  
He reached down suddenly and I flailed, scraping more against the building and skittering nonsensically against the ground. Gripping my shoulders, Grelle forced me onto my back so that I was looking up at him. He kept his shoe planted on my chest as he leaned down, flashing his pointed teeth in a cruel smile.  
“Excellent!” He cheered. “And do you ever find out who it is?”  
“Uh.... n-no,” I whimpered, holding my hands up defensively over my face. “We d-don’t!”  
Grelle threw his head back and laughed, leaning down and resting his elbow on his knee. “Fantastic! I know who it is,” he bragged, reaching into his coat.  
I followed his hand’s movements with my gaze anxiously.  
“Would you like to know?” He cooed dangerously.  
I gulped and stuttered uselessly. “I... uh... w...”  
He pulled out a garter. “It’s me!” He howled proudly. “Now hold out your hands.”  
“What— no! Why in Hell would I make it easier for you to take me?!” I demanded, tucking my hands behind my back and glaring up at him. “Are you— there’s no way you’ll kill me like that, I-I’m not in the history books as a Ripper victim!”  
Grelle shrugged. “It would be out of character for Jack the Ripper, no? You will just fall between the cracks of random killings. If I leave your body behind.”  
Before I had a chance to get my hands up again, he slid the garter around my neck and tightened it.  
Stepping off of me, Grelle wrapped the loose end around his palm a couple times before yanking me to my feet. I stumbled forwards and he caught me, romantically dipping me and holding me against his chest.  
I snarled at him and punched him in the sternum as hard as I could.  
“Ouch! You’re mean!” Grelle pouted, rubbing his chest and stepping away from me, dragging me with him by the lead.  
“I’ve had practise,” I growled. “You reapers are all the same.”  
“What?” Grelle demanded, tugging on the garter to make me gag. “That’s insulting!”  
“It’s true!” I snapped. “You all think you’re so above everything! YOU’RE—NOT—GODS!!”  
While Grelle stood there, stunned from my little anecdote, I kicked him in the stomach as hard as I could. He fell back and coughed once, his grip slipping from the garter. Darting forwards, I slammed my shoulder into the reaper and shoved him into the wall before taking off into the street.

I ran hard, constantly checking over my shoulder. I was amazed and concerned when the red reaper didn’t chase after me, but I kept running. Buildings flew by. Occasionally, I sprinted past people out for an evening stroll, and all of them gasped at my appearance before jumping back. I paid them no attention as I raced back to the shop. Finally, I rounded a corner of an alley and the door was in view.  
The moments between seeing the door and falling through it are a white blur. I stumbled through and the familiar little bell chimed as it swung shut behind me.  
“Welcome back,” the mortician murmured, before glancing up at me. “Are you alright?” He asked, suddenly abandoning his book and rising from the desk. I shook my head and gingerly touched my cheek, which was still bleeding, as were my hands.  
The Undertaker took me by my wrists and held them for him to look at, pushing his bangs out of his face as his eyes widened. Then he took my face in his hands, expression concerned as he tilted my head gently left to look at the injuries.  
“What happened?” He asked, narrowing his eyes. “Did you fall? You’re all muddy.”  
“I—yeah, I fell,” I murmured shyly, pressing my hand over my cheek.  
He stilled, cold hands against my jaw as his gaze swept over my face and hands repeatedly. After a few moments, I blinked at him and gently tried to push one of his hands off of me. “W-Why are you analyzing me?”  
“You fell?” he murmured sceptically, allowing his grip to drop. “You were just... what were you doing?”  
“I was just— running, I was running,” I laughed nervously. “I’m clumsy.”  
“Your tongue certainly is,” he hissed.  
Before I had a chance to reply, his hand snapped forwards. Suddenly I was balancing on my tiptoes, my chest against his as he glared down at me, nearly nose to nose. He had grabbed my leash, which I had forgotten was there.  
A tense moment of silence fell between this, his lips in a thin line and his eyes shining angrily.  
“Do you think,” he hissed, shaking the garter around my neck. “That I don’t know what this is?”  
“I—“ I gagged against the pressure as he dragged me closer.  
“Did you think that I was too near-sighted to see? That I haven’t seen these on him, on his arms?!”  
“I just— I didn’t— want you to worry,” I rasped, pulling against the ligature.  
His eyes widened for a moment.  
“You think you’re immune,” I continued, barely coughing the words out. “Like I told—him— you’re not— a god! Even if you think you are!”  
The mortician blinked. “You said that to Grelle?”  
I nodded, watching his face carefully as I gasped for air, still hovering on my tiptoes.  
He suddenly released the garter and chuckled. I slouched forwards in relief and he caught me, running his hand across my shoulders as I sucked in air.  
“I cannot believe you lived after that,” he chuckled. “I do not worry about you.”  
I coughed again.  
“Oh you’re so dramatic,” he scolded, gripping my shoulders and pushing me back to look at me. “You know you do not need to breathe, right? Your body no longer requires oxygen.”  
“I had questions about that,” I chirped, rubbing my neck idly. “How does my body continue to function? Or yours for that matter?”  
The Undertaker shrugged. “Call it magic.”  
“Thanks,” I muttered.  
“You’re welcome,” he replied. “Now come sit on the desk. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“What is th— HEY! That stINGS!!!”  
“Quit moving, it’s bound to sting, dear—“  
I winced and pushed his hand away gently for a moment. “Christ!”  
“What is it you were saying?” He prompted, pallid fingers holding an even whiter cotton pad with alcohol lifting to press the gauze to my scraped cheek again.  
I grimaced and grit my teeth. “What’s this?” I asked pointing to the picture in the book.  
The mortician paused his ministrations to glance at the page, glittery green eyes fixating on the diagram as his brows knitted together in contemplation. “Which?”  
“This, this frog thing. I’ve never seen one before.”  
The little alcohol wipe was suddenly abandoned on the desktop.  
I was seated on the desk facing him, reading a book he had given me to distract me from the stinging as he washed out the wounds on my hands, knees, and face. It was some kind of documentation about reaping, a stylized journal of practical tips and tricks he had picked up or memories that had jumped out at him. Most of the stories were about children. He hasn’t seemed to like those, or rather, they seemed to affect him the worst.  
This diagram was of an enigmatic figure holding a scythe and standing above another ambiguous blob, a dark mass which I assumed to be a body. The simple diagram of quickly sketched lines was strange, almost out of place in the book, but the character holding the scythe (who I assumed to be the Undertaker from the long white hair) seemed... slumped. As though he was suddenly unmotivated. Defeated, sad. Depressed. The body had big lines with littler ones branching off stretching out of it, but the figure I was interested in was an alien-like creature standing behind the body, across from the Undertaker.  
I couldn’t make out any discernible features, but the skin was stained green in the drawing, as the eyes were apparently big enough to be vaguely sketched in despite the lack of other features. It’s posture was shy, as though it was fearful of something. It was almost hiding in the lines of the body, hidden in the smudged ink of the drawing.  
“In fact,” I murmured softly, as the Undertaker leaned forwards more to stare at the drawing, silver strands draping across his shoulder. “What is the rest of this drawing even saying?”  
I watched his face carefully. Eyes narrowing as he analyzed the image, I suddenly felt an urge to kiss his sharp and hollow cheekbone. Instead, I tilted slightly and turned the book, so that the side of my face was pressed against his and we could both view the picture.  
His shoulders tensed at the contact, but only for a moment. This pleased some little warm domestic part of my mind, and I sighed and closed my eyes, momentarily forgetting what I had asked or what I was doing.  
“Oh, strange... I remember that day... that one, yes?” He murmured, black talon reaching up to tap the green person.  
“Mm? Yup, that one.”  
“That’s an Antireaper.”  
I choked on my tongue in surprise. That was not the answer I had expected.  
“An Antireaper?” I demanded, pulling the book up closer in a sudden panic. “The hell is an Antireaper? Do they give life??”  
The mortician chuckled and drew back. “No, no... they serve a slightly different function. Or they did, anyways. I haven’t seen one in... well, at least a century, now. It makes me wonder if they’ve gone extinct. They never really contributed anything, they only existed to feed on what was already dead. Like scavengers.”  
I stared blankly at him. “You’re making no sense.”  
Running his hand through his hair tiredly, he held up a talon and turned away from me, attending to the bookshelf. Running his hand across a few of the spines, he muttered something under his breath.  
“Here,” he murmured, sliding a book off of the bottom shelf. “This is a far more detailed account of them. Read some of this while I continue to clean you up from your little reaper rendezvous. Ask me questions then.”  
He plopped the book very suddenly in my lap, dust billowing up from the edges. Setting the current tome my hands were occupied by down on the desk, I flipped open the new volume as the mortician resumed his task. I winced again when the pad touched my cheek, wiping away dirt and blood that hadn’t done anything.  
“Quick question,” I chirped. “Will my cells regenerate, or do I just have open skin there forever?”  
“I have to stitch you together, and then I believe your restorative properties will kick in... it is going to be slow and you’ll likely scar, because you do not have reaper powers... but your body still functions normally. Your cells still... do things... especially when you eat, like myself— but your blood doesn’t move because your heart does not beat, so I think that slows the process. I do not understand how.”  
“Yeah, the blood wouldn’t carry the nutrients,” I murmured to myself. Then my head snapped up and I glared at him. “You have to stitch me?”  
He blinked. “I do not have to if you wish me not to, darling, but I assure you, my thread-work is very precise.”  
I just sighed, turning my attention back to the dusty brown leather cover as I ran my fingertip down the side of the book.  
“‘Immortali—tatis’? Are you ever normal?”  
“Immortalitatis. It is simply Latin,” he defended. “Read and be quiet for once while I fix you.”  
I read.  
His handwriting was light, elegant scrawl with particularly sharp swirls and edges where letters dipped or rose.  
“Here,” he murmured, suddenly leading through the book for me and opening to a page about halfway in. “This is the chapter delving into Antireapers.”

///Lest this book aye fall to incapable hands, I shall describe the perils of the violence of mankind and what it may produce 'i perpetual wink.  
Suicide and murder are not uncommon methods at which humans perish. At sites of these bloody endings, a creature that a reaper may encounter, known as an Antireaper, shall oft appear.\\\\\

“Perpetual wink?”  
“Death,” he translated. 

///An antireaper is a being that feasts upon the energies that remain at the scene of a reaping once the deed is done. Human life is notoriously sacred to 'em; only when a man is able to fully relinquish the summon to live is he forced into the place of reaper. As such, the memories and cinematic records shall frequently turn termagant. The moe unjust the method of dying, the moe sore and enchafed the records can be. They shall fight thou harder, as a reaper. This exchange 'twixt reaper and soul leaves behind residual energies that neither demon nor reaper care to collect, and seem to dissipate uselessly into space and time lest an antireaper is present. Little is known about the creatures regarding where they join from; it is unclear whe'r they are failed reapers, murder victims, or a divers type of god that we never understand. They appear to be weaker than reapers, yet conflicts never oft occur, as they are benevolent and never interfere with neither human nor reaper business. As far as we wot, they maintain no demonic connections.\\\\\

“That is a lot to take in,” I murmured shyly after a moment. “The words— they’re the same words but they’re used weirdly. Is this actually how you guys write stuff?”  
“It is Olde English, I believe is what your time calls it. To us it is simply English, as Olde English currently is just pure Latin,” he hummed, eyes darting to the page quickly before he refocused himself. 

 

///Antireapers are most identifiable by their green or blue flesh. Some appear to hast scale-like textures while others hast appeared smooth, nearly glistening. Black smoke seems to leak from where they step, and they doth, notably, wear habit. It varies, suggesting individuality and personality. Each antireaper’s eyes are large and seem not to blink, built for observation. Common colours include black, orange, and green.\\\\\

I turned the page.  
What I was met with was a grisly image, one that I was not prepared for, and I gave a little yelp of surprise.  
“Didn’t this bloody thing just say that these things are benevolent??” I demanded, flashing the picture at him.  
He chuckled and nodded. “They typically are. Sorry for the fright, just keep reading.”

The image was of the creature, standing hunched in front of a reaper, who again appeared much like the mortician himself. But this creature, rather than standing in the shadows, was staring the reaper down, with many many black limbs like tentacles sprouting from its back and hovering in a poised position above the reaper. I noticed the ‘smoke’ that had been described at the creature’s feet. 

///At confrontation, these creatures can become most threatening, though typically not firm-set. Their excess arms shall taper into points and become elastic, lengthening at will to gild extreme distances with extreme agility and power. And yet , these appendages, while appearing challenging, are easily cut through with the blade of any scythe. The creatures are not immune to pain as demons are.  
when left alone, the antireapers truly feast on what is left behind. Humans hast taken the creatures into their own legends, occasionally stumbling across 'em at inopportune times. This is what the mortals classify as ghosts, as they are typically seen at the sights of suicides and murder; where the termagant energies are the most plentiful.\\\\\

“Woah, ghosts are real?” I breathed.  
“Humans sometimes see these creatures at the graves or places where the souls perished, yes? Your brains associate their unearthly qualities with apparitions. The way that you cannot see reapers, you so cannot see Antireapers— until they feed and become momentarily linked to your world using another human’s memories. It’s very complicated,” he waved a dismissive hand. “Regardless. That is an Antireaper. Are you more satisfied in your knowledge now?” He asked, carefully pulling the book from my grip and placing it back on the shelf.  
I nodded and he drifted through the shop to collect the tools necessary to stitch me up. Picking up the first book, I carefully flipped it in my hands and contemplated the picture again. The mortician returned and I did my very best to ignore his hands and the occasional spike of pain as he took thread to my cheek again and again, carefully (hopefully) stitching up the largest of the open lines. Yuck; I was usually unconscious for this stuff. Something about needles really unnerved me, the way they dipped into flesh and could just kind of go -into- it—  
I shuddered and focused on the book again.  
The mortician’s posture was what was so curious to me. The way he was holding his scythe was downturned, dragging along the ground, rather than up and at the ready as it had been when facing the angered Antireaper. The figure seemed to be staring at the memories of the deceased, those little lines sprawling out of the body. What did he see? The other book had mentioned cinematic records— film reels? Were memories actually tangible film reels?  
Was there anything you could play them on?  
I carefully flipped the page. On the back of the image was a small paragraph, written in a lighter ink than the rest of the tome, and out of format.

{Was there a reaper for me, who looked with such the same distaste upon my broken records?  
I cannot help but wonder if an Antireaper observed silently, bitter that I gave no battle, that I did not care. I did not care for them, nor for me.  
I tend, unfortunately, to wonder if the reaper watched, if they cared. My life was so worthless when human... for all that I am now, so I felt equally nothing but that despairing gap betwixt myself and every other man.  
I stared at her memories for such a time, I began to lose myself, replaying her death and mine in my head, mixing the two before pulling them apart again and slicing her soul to ribbons as I had been so taught.  
I was born to die early. I was created for it from the start.  
But these people are not, and they do not deserve this end. I suppose I wish to have done something different for them.}

And that’s just... all it said.  
I felt like I needed more justification, or more explanation, or something...  
I reread the first half again, feeling slightly sick and sad.  
Sitting numbly for a few more moments, I waited patiently while the mortician finished his task and eventually snipped the thread and pulled back.  
“There,” he hummed. “Now you’re—are you alright?” He murmured suddenly, gelid fingers pressing into my jaw as he tilted my head up to look at him.  
I was surprised to find my eyes stinging as I glanced at his elegant features. “Undertaker,” I mumbled sadly, pushing the book off my lap carefully and wrapping my arms around his shoulders tightly. “I care!”  
Stiffening, he hesitated. Then his posture relaxed familiarly and I hung onto him like death, clutching at the black fabric of his robes and trying to convince myself not to cry as I buried my nose in his soft hair.  
His arms carefully tightened around my midsection in response. He was always surprisingly warm.  
“I care!” I whimpered into his shoulder.  
He laughed humourlessly. “I honestly cannot see why you bother—“  
“oh mY GOD you ASSHOLE—“ I burst into tears.  
“Oh!- oh dear,” he chuckled, and one of his hands slid up to run through my hair comfortingly.  
The next five to seven minutes were spent with me draped miserably against his chest, sobbing into his shoulder as awful thoughts of him and everything that had gone wrong in my life as my brain went haywire spun through my mind.  
As I began to calm down, eyes red and starting to itch, he shifted his grip and lifted me off the desk. I stood in front of him, miserably wiping my eyes with my sleeve and still fighting littler noises of misery.  
“Hither, dear, I believe you are tired,” he offered, smiling kindly and adding pressure to the small of my back with his hand. “Come and sleep for the night. It is late.”  
“Do you believe me?” I wailed.  
“Wha- believe you?”  
“That I c-care about you!”  
He chuckled again, hair shifting and covering one of his eyes before he brushed it away. “Of course I believe you. In all seriousness, dear,” he murmured, stepping back towards me and rubbing a thumb amicably over my cheek— the non-damaged one. “I greatly appreciate your affections.”  
I nodded and leaned against him.  
“No,” he laughed, pulling away. “Come on. To bed. Not me.”  
I scowled childishly. “You really are insane if you think you’re not coming too.”  
“Oh I will,” he assured me, leading me back to the bedroom. “Reapers need sleep each night. Otherwise we acquire a sleep debt and then go into a coma.”  
I blinked and shook my head. “You never ever make sense, do you?”  
He smiled, suddenly looking tired. “Perhaps not.”


	18. Chapter 18

A week’s worth of time passed. I remained hesitant to step outside, fearing that Grelle would be around every corner; God forbid I ever cross paths with the more agile reaper, William. If I went roaming, the Undertaker came with. I spent time in the shop watching him build coffins, as I preferred to keep away from the actual cadavers. My appreciation for the cemetery grew. It was a quiet and relaxed place, hidden from the noise and chaos and danger of the real world outside the shop. Remarkably, I adapted quickly, to a point where I wondered how I had ever survived in the roaring crowds of California. Very occasionally, I still thoughts of my parents, and how the idea of never seeing them again was now no longer an idea, but a finality. They weren’t even alive yet. How strange, to be younger than your ancestors.  
The mortician devoted his time to keeping me entertained and happy, providing walks, books, activities, and company at every turn. It was such a safe place for my mind compared to where it had once been. Such care had never been taken of me before. I didn’t have to worry about paying an electricity bill or a phone bill; this was truly a simpler time, although I was nervous about things like Yellow Fever and Polio and whatever else was kicking around. While I couldn’t exactly die from them, I didn’t know if my body would ever fight it off— hardly a way to spend eternity, constantly running a high temperature and throwing up.  
A few more months proceeded; the winter was heartbreaking to live through, and the Undertaker and I had to constantly console each other as orphans and parents and nobles and urchins all filtered through the shop almost daily. Exposure to the cold was fatal here. The ground was often too cold to dig through, and the bodies were...dealt with... and stored beneath the shop in the basement. I shuddered every time I heard him dragging one down. Often, I would have nightmares of the dead reawakening, screaming at me what Grelle had accused me of; I had no right to be here. I had no right to feel this special.  
Although I grew accustomed, I still felt quite out of place, for the fact that... they were living, and I was not. But I tried to push those thoughts aside.  
Nina occasionally brought around new clothes, and occasionally the mortician and I would find ourselves down at a tavern somewhere. The style of social dance he had forced me to participate in was common in all gatherings of people, and those definitely became some of my favourite memories. As days floated by, there were a few moments, the mortician slyly smiling at me as we spun, watching him dance with others, a distinct moment where I noticed a glass that was stained red with dye that reminded me of plastic red party cup. Every piece of time became significant in its own way, now that... I wasn’t sure if it would ever end.  
Then in early February, the mortician received a letter.  
I waltzed into the main living area, stretching and yawning just as he priced open the little wax seal of the yellow envelop. He sighed.  
“What’s wrong?” I asked.  
“It’s just another— thing,” he huffed, tossing it to his desk with a distasteful wave of his hand. Then he pressed his palm to his eye and rubbed at it. “And I do not feel like doing it.”  
“Thing?” I arched an eyebrow, and his chartreuse fixed against my gaze. “Another perilous group of souls. Like at the hotel.”  
“Oh,” I nodded solemnly. “So you have to go take care of it... what if you refuse?”  
He winced. “Then I must bear the guilt if those souls become trapped by a demon hoard, fixed in a cycle in time, and a dozen green reapers die facing the hellions.”  
My eyes widened. “Ah. Okay. So you should, then.”  
“Yes,” he sighed. “I should. There’s just one problem,” he murmured, now staring through me as he concentrated. “You.”  
“Me?” I demanded, stepping up to his desk and perching on the edge of it to look down upon his long black-clad form, draped in his chair.  
“Yes, you. I have to take you with me. Not that I don’t want the company, but the actual souls at these events often feed off each other’s panic and could become very volatile. You’ve never even seen a memory,” he muttered. “And unfortunately, time loops often occur only during massive accounts of... trauma. Massacres.”  
“Well— I mean, I can stay here if you’d prefer,” I offered.  
He shook his head and leaned forwards suddenly, drawing up closer to me as he tapped the letter with one black talon. “This is from dispatch— William’s division. Both he and Grelle will know that I am gone, and they will come looking for you.”  
“Would they really?” I sighed, slightly galled by how... unsportsmanlike it seemed.  
Nodding, he pointed at the door and placed his chin in his hand. He looked so pretty when he did that, shiny green blinking up at me from beneath long pale lashes, as white as his hair, skin ageless. Timeless, of course. I always felt such a sense of security when I saw him now, it was quite an addicting comfort.  
“Did you hear me?”  
I blinked. “Nope. I was—“  
“Staring,” he finished. “I said that the lock will nearly guaranteed to have been tampered with upon our return. Grelle and William both want you for the library, m’dear— and Grelle is, unfortunately, quite skilled in the field of collection.”  
I pulled my arms up around myself subconsciously. “I’m more afraid of William, to be honest. I’ve outwitted Grelle twice now. Something about his pride just lets me slip by, but William doesn’t care to ever... pause for performance.”  
The mortician shrugged. “Regardless— pack another change of clothes into a bag and I’ll pack one as well. It shouldn’t take us more than a couple of days, and we don’t exactly sweat like humans.”  
I slid off the desk. “Where are we going? The future, or the past?”  
He blinked at me. “The past is already dealt with, m’dear. But we are not going back to your timeline, if that is what you are wondering.”  
I shook my head, stepping back across the cold concrete to the room to change and pack. “Not really, I’m perfectly fine in any timeline but mine— I was just curious. How far are we... travelling?”  
He squinted at the letter. “Hmm.. We are going to Poland, actually—“  
I felt my breath catch, and he cut himself off at the sight of my face paling so quickly.  
“Let me guess,” I choked out. “September 1st, 1939.”

The Undertaker decanted me a concoction of belladonna something-or-other to knock me unconscious, as neither of us knew what conscious time travel might do to me, and I felt that actually feeling my particles being shifted through the fabric of space might not be so fun.  
By the time I awoke, we were in a hotel. Humble beginnings.  
It wasn’t much of what you might call a hotel now. A two-story brick building was surrounded by a small green field, and the air here was much warmer than the cold February of England.  
When I woke up, I was already on a bed inside a room, and the Undertaker was seated at a small table in the corner of the room. It was set up nearly the same as the hotel in which we had met, in fact. The single bag containing both of our sets of clothes was on the foot of the bed.  
“I told them you were sick, and I needed some place to put you, as you and I were travelling from Britain to see Russia when you suddenly came down with flu. So act a little sick when we go down, ye?” He murmured softly, watching me carefully as I groggily opened my eyes and sat up.  
“Sure, whatever,” I mumbled, the dread of the day to come already pooling in my stomach. “I feel a little sick anyway.”  
“You seem to know this date,” he murmured. “Please inform me.”  
I glanced at him, kicking blankets off of myself slowly. “Uh... well... this is essentially the day that World War 2... begins,” I murmured sadly, heart already aching for what was yet to be.  
“2?” He demanded sharply. “When the bloody hell does the first one happen?”  
“Ah, sometime in the early 1900’s, I think.”  
“Alright,” he huffed, seeming perturbed as he crossed his arms. “Well, what’s got your feathers so ruffled about it?”  
“Don’t you have a list of souls to collect?” I asked. “Can’t you... can’t you see?”  
Stretching, he pulled a long strand of white hair off of his shoulder. “Yes, but it’s nothing too ghastly compared to what I’ve approached before. But I only have it for this single event,” he added. “Not the entire war.”  
I stared vacantly at my hands, feeling small and useless. I was here. I was at the beginning of the Holocaust, and I wasn’t going to stop it. Wasn’t that a thing? If you could travel back in time, isn’t that always what you said as a kid? Kill Hitler?  
“Under...taker,” I murmured, tears brimming. “Six million people die in the next six years. Jewish people are locked in concentration camps. They go in big rooms and get sprayed with gas until they suffocate, or put in massive ovens and burned. Hitler invades Poland today,” I whispered, tears now running down my cheeks. “And I can’t stop him, Undertaker, I can’t stop him!”  
The mortician was quick to my side, arms around my shoulders as I stared at the floor and wept, disgusted at my own shame.  
“It’s not your fault,” he murmured softly, rubbing his fingers through my hair.  
“Why isn’t it?” I demanded quietly. “Why isn’t it my fault? It might as well be...”  
“Look at me,” he murmured, brows creased in concern as he put his hands against my shoulders.  
I blinked at him miserably.  
“I need you awake, and sharp, alright? The best thing that you can do now is help me ensure that the people that die here truly pass. We don’t want a time loop of today, do we?”  
I shuddered and wiped my eyes. “I...I guess not...”  
“You need to help me. I will prioritize you over any of these people. If you don’t want me to do that, help me by making sure I don’t have to worry about you, yes love?” He murmured soothingly, nudging my chin up with his hand. “Be strong.”  
“I know, I know,” I sighed, pulling away from him and curling up on the edge of the bed. “I just...need...time.”

Time is what we did not have, and before long, the mortician and I were on the streets, jumping from house to house and building to building as he collected souls with a detached expression. I kept my eyes buried in my arm, standing in a corner where he put me until he called and informed me that he was finished.  
In the darkness of my own design, I could only focus on the crashing of walls as bombs exploded in the darkness around us. It was early early morning, and the sky was still black.  
Amid the smoke and ruin, I was unable to appreciate the architecture or structure of Poland in this time period. Fire and screaming people were everywhere as air sirens screamed in the night and the earth shook violently.  
I threw up a few times, passed out briefly a couple others, but I did my best to not hinder the Undertaker’s reaping in any way. The sooner he finished, the sooner I would be out of here.  
Everywhere we went, I heard the screams of children being blown up. 

I returned to the shop feeling... different. London was too quiet now, blissfully unaware of the horrors to come. The next three days of mine were spent in the bedroom, sleeping it off. Every time I would wake up and think about it, I drugged myself back under, and the mortician didn’t stop me. I needed... time.  
Every time I reached for that bottle of belladonna and opium or whatever he put in it, my hands shook, like the ground had that night. So many people died. So many. And it was just the start; a single floating day in a long six-year sea.  
I wondered if Hitler ever wept for the soldiers he lost.  
Back to sleep.  
After my all-too-brief escape, I roused myself from the bed and dragged my tired corpse into the main living space. The mortician lifted his eyebrows and slid his legs off his desk, placing the open book facedown on the surface.  
“Surprised to see me?” I asked bitterly.  
Slowly, he leaned forwards in his chair with a guarded expression. “Frankly, I did not know if I ever would again.”  
“Here I am.”  
“Indeed,” he sighed, rising elegantly from the chair to drift uneasily towards me. “Are you... going to be alright?”  
“Of course,” I muttered vacantly, glaring angrily at the floor and leaning against him when he drew near enough. His hand rubbed the back of my neck comfortingly.  
“I am enthralled to see you awake,” he murmured softly, pulling me up closer to him. “I worried that I... overexposed you.”  
“I see why you’re insane,” I laughed humourlessly. “I’m feeling like I might... have to be.”  
“It helps,” he chuckled in return. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”  
“I don’t know,” I shook my head. “I think... I think I should just go out, alone, for a little. Try and remind myself that there’s good in this world.”  
He wrapped his arms around me tightly. Safety.  
“I’ll be here, then,” he murmured.  
I tilted my face up to him, and he kissed me very gently, warmly.  
As he let me go, I ran my hand through my hair. “I guess I should change.”  
“Your clothes are still in the wardrobe.”  
He busied himself with sketching something in a new book while I pulled on a loose red shirt and fluttery black pants, jamming my feet determinedly in my boots, which had now seen so much.  
The mortician rose and hovered near the door.  
“You are certain you want to go alone?”  
“I still feel foggy from all the drugs,” I mumbled. “I need the air and space to clear my head.”  
He nodded in understanding, pale hand resting against the side of my face for a moment before he pushed open the door. “It is warm today,” he noted, squinting out at the street with me. “Back before dark, yes?”  
“Of course,” I sighed, smiling reassuringly at him before backing out of the door. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

I traced our usual pattern. It was odd to be outside alone, after a few months of always finding myself attached to the mortician’s side. Any anxiety was dampened by the overall depressive mood of my current... existence.  
I decided to head to the graveyard, a place that now held fond memories, and I wandered down the streets staring morosely at the ground and kicking cobblestones.  
The cemetery was quiet— although, not many people had passed me by in the first place. I drifted lazily through the headstones, pausing to remember what it was like to dig some of them, laughing with the mortician. We respected the dead, in their individuality. I couldn’t respect those people properly— there were too many, too many to take care of. Too many to fathom.  
Lost in my appreciation for a particular marble headstone, I was quite jarred when I was suddenly forced flat on my back with the collar of my shirt constricted uncomfortably against my throat.  
“Wha-“  
“I fail to understand how Grelle possibly let you slip by so easily so many times,” William sighed, adjusting the glasses perched atop his firm-set scowl of mild distaste. “But the problem will be rectified.”  
“William,” I gasped. “Fuck.”  
“Foul language will not dissuade me,” he murmured apathetically, and I kicked at the garden shears that currently stapled my shirt into the cold ground next to my shoulder.  
I grabbed the shears and pulled them further into the ground as hard as I could, which budged them maybe an inch, but it bought me enough time to crawl hastily out of my shirt as William struggled to withdraw the blades from the earth.  
“You should be thanking me,” he murmured, kicking me back against as I made to leap away. “As this will be quick and painless.”  
I threw my hands up, but my miraculous catch did not repeat itself, and I screamed as the shears sliced into my stomach. For a second, nothing happened, I was just staring wildly at William’s cold and calculating gaze as a small blood droplet leaked out from around the shaft of the garden shears and dropped onto the dead grass at my feet.  
Then something seemed to break in the silence. Pure white light ripped through the air towards the dark reaper, and the shears were withdrawn from my body as William focused his attention on harvesting my soul. I crumpled to the ground, blinded. This was,.. not like passing out. I had no time to adjust, no encroaching darkness. There was,... white... confusion, and I knew I was, I was dying, I had failed, I failed everyone, and it was all for nothing.  
Briefly, I thought once of the Undertaker, and what his beautiful green eyes might look like when I didn’t come home.

 

~NOT THE END OF THE STORY~ well kind of. This is the finale of this fanfiction, but LET ME TELL YOU BB— if you’ve read my other fanfic, When in Rome, all the way through, then you probably already know that I’m going to connect all of my fan fictions together. I’ve only got 3, each in the same style of undertaker x reader with OC’s. Their plots are all different yet related, and in a fourth fanfiction, I’m going to bring Langdon, London, and the character from Carbon Dating together. They’re all from different points in time as the fics happen separately, but ooo I’m so excited for the fourth story! So if you want to stick around for the fourth story, go read the other two as well, if you liked this you’ll probably like those anyway :). I’m not doing a very good job explaining this. The end of When in Rome has a better explanation I think. Anyway! I know this is a sudden and dissatisfying end, but the fourth story will tie it all together and fill in some blanks and explain some plot lines with more storyline and I’m very excited for it. But no further updates of Hotel California will be coming out, so thank you everyone for reading, hopefully see you around in some other stories!


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